Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are certain moments in life, at least for most people, when you're forced to face the fact that you have no idea what you're supposed to do next. When the novelty of a situation, regardless of its other qualities, gets to a point at which you can do nothing except make shit up as you go.

Phantom found herself in that position more often than not. 

Batman... Not so much.

So when Dylan fell asleep with her head on Bruce's shoulder, a part of him considered just staying frozen on that spot for the rest of the night if he had to.

Her decision to stay, recent and hard fought as it was, felt incredibly fragile and he feared that if he took a wrong step, it would all come crashing down. That fear, of course, was aggravated by the fact that he didn't know what would constitute as a wrong step.

It took him a long time, but eventually he carried Dylan to her room, placed her in her bed and slowly, silently, closed the door behind him.Outside he was met with expectation.

He took his index finger to his lips before anyone could say anything, and his kids followed him all the way to the study before breaking their little vow of silence.

"Dylan," started Cass, "stays?"

Bruce nodded, and Cass gave him a little smirk, her eyes wrinkling like they did when she was excited, before returning the gesture. Good job, Bruce thought he could hear her say.

"Great, so— what's the plan?" Asked Tim calmly, though there was a trail of tension going down his spine that nobody could ignore.

Bruce took a deep breath.

"We will prepare to face ghosts and spirits if the occasion calls for it. Dylan agreed to help us with that."

"She did?" Asked Duke, almost without intending to.

"She is afraid that being here will put us in danger," Bruce went on, as if that explained what had clearly been an out-of-character move for Dylan. The implications, however, were hard to ignore, and Damian's jaw tensed barely. She was not wrong about that. "Do you..." Bruce sat down in one of the couches, quickly being imitated, "Are you all okay with that?"

It's not that he thought they weren't, exactly, but he still wanted to hear it. If he was going to stop assuming things in regards to Dylan, the least he could do was exactly the same for the rest of his family.

Cass was the first one to reply, curtly and without hesitation: "Yes."

Duke and Dick were next, nodding emphatically, and Tim followed close behind, though not as excited.

(The guilt in his eyes made it hard to believe he didn't mean it, though.)

Finally, Bruce turned to his youngest.

"What about you, Damian?"

The boy scoffed. "If you expect me to refuse just because it was me that the specter attacked, you must think even less of me than I believed."

"Damian,—"

"If you'll excuse me, I do believe it's a school night."

Bruce couldn't bring himself to stop him. Worse, he couldn't bring himself to do much of anything besides nod at him as he went to bed, and gesture to the rest of his kids to do the same.

One night and one day had gone by since then.

Dylan had hardly spoken a single word,— not besides a "good morning" when getting into the car leaving for school, and an "I'll be in my room" when they returned, before heading upstairs and entrenching herself there until after dinner.

Alfred had taken her food to her, and now all his kids were in the kitchen, unsubtly waiting for when the man would go get it.

Imagine their surprise when she brought it down herself.

Neither she nor them expected to be looking at each other so soon, clearly, if their expressions were telling him anything, so Bruce stood up from his desk and started making his way to the kitchen.

(He hadn’t been spying. But Jason had come and— well.)

(He wasn’t spying. He was hiding.)

It had been one night and one day.

Each had felt like a second.

Chapter Text

Dylan couldn’t help the sense of deja vu that overcame her, when the thought crossed her mind, but, there were a lot more people in the kitchen than she expected.

She noticed Dick first, his standing figure towering over everyone else, and then made a quick headcount that ended when she found herself meeting Jason’s gaze head on.

“Hi,” she said, blank as a sheet of paper.

Jason nodded back. He hadn’t had time to figure out his game plan before Dick had broken into his apartment with the news. The green had come back almost as soon as he’d left the girl’s vicinity, and he’d been an idiot to expect otherwise. And Jason didn’t want to let himself believe it, but... But it kinda felt like it had come back a little... Tamer. Weaker. He had no fucking idea what to make of it and he intended to figure it out by himself, but, alas. Family is just another F word, and in this case, it is spelled in the shape of Dickolas and his set of bat-lockpicks.

Alfred was quick to manifest besides her and gentle to take the plate from her hands.

“Thank you, Miss Dylan,” the man nodded, simply, but still managing a great deal in the front of anxiety-relief.

Alfred didn’t ever seem to need a lot of words, Dylan was realizing. When he had come to get her for dinner, she'd heard nothing out of the ordinary. When she’d asked if she could skip it, she thought she’d said nothing out of the ordinary.

But when he’d proceeded to assure her that she was expected to do what she thought best, and that she’d suffer scorn from no one from doing so, since anyone who tried it would be swiftly deterred by him personally, Dylan thought she could cry.

Alfred had then proceeded to list the food available for her, smoothly skipping over anything that had meat in it.

The butler's presence was the one thing that she'd gotten used to about the Manor, even though in his near omnipresence, Alfred Pennyworth had every right to terrify her.

But there had been a quiet complicity behind all of their interactions that, as naive as it could sound, made her feel like Alfred was on her side,— a silent ally who wouldn't let things get too bad.

In a way, it reminded her of Clockwork, not that she wanted to start thinking about him right now, and the comforting knowledge that, even if he couldn't always act on it, she had his support, and that if push came to shove he'd be there for her.

Then again she'd been pretty fucking mistaken in that assumption so who was she to talk.

Dylan had finished her dinner as her friends filled her in on what they'd found out that day. Jazz had noticed a new ghost hanging around and had met d'Eon, whose existence Dylan had completely forgotten about and to whom she still had a promise to keep. It seemed that the woman had seen some of the fight of the previous day, too, which was going to do wonders for the new King's reputation. I heard she rips out the cores of her enemies was gonna be a hard one to debunk. Especially, of course, because it was true.

And she had started to feel guilty about that. Just for a sec. Before Sam and Tucker told her that Vlad knew all of the Waynes' identities. Suddenly her actions felt extremely justifiable.

It had then devolved into a discussion about what the next steps with him should be. They decided that Sam and Tucker would go to Wisconsin with several goals: One, see if he's there and if not, that was two, find any clues as to where he could be hiding. Three, have Tucker delete any proof he could find about the bats' identities, and four, if possible, make copies of anything useful before burning his system to the ground. Sam was going as backup, reinforcement, and distraction, depending on how things went.

Dylan had been a little hesitant about it,— unsurprisingly, since they were rarely the ones taking the initiative with Vlad,— but either she was convinced by their determination, or she was too mentally exhausted to argue with them. Jazz wasn't sure which one it was, but in either case she was staying by Dylan's side and she found she wasn't too opposed to some time alone with her.

She had told them a little more about her own royal adventure earlier, at lunchtime in school, and while Jazz had allowed her to use it as an excuse to avoid the bats, she knew she couldn't keep enabling her.

As much as Dylan wouldn't enjoy it, it was time to put all of the cards on the table. Jazz intended to make that process as painless as she could.

Besides, with how much there was to explain? The sooner she started, the bigger the chances she'd get through all of it before Damian left for college.

And, as a mixture of all of this went through her head, Dylan managed to say, "I think we should talk."

Bruce smiled at me, his expression a trained display of openness. 

That openness was not being transmitted to my mouth, however. I seemed to have forgotten every word I ever knew.

Which wasn't really an issue, generally,— I'd always been more of an "act now, explain never" type of gal,— but the fact was that I was supposed to be doing a lot of talking right about now.

“There's no rush,” he reassured.

I nodded, winced, muttered something along the lines of “sorry, I just—...” before sighing, plainly frozen at the sheer magnitude of everything I had to explain.

My main goal was to not get overwhelmed and I had already failed spectacularly.

Although, if we're being honest, that battle had been lost the second that all of the people in the kitchen had decided to join us in the cave.

(Which, wow.)

(I was standing in the Bat Cave™. As soon as I finished processing that, I was gonna lose my shit.)

It took me a second to admit it, but I probably should have realized earlier that that's why they were here: To hear my explanations.

Explanations that I'd never had to give before. Explanations that would expose just how much of a freak I was. Explanations that every fiber of my being was fighting against.

This had been a mistake.

I briefly considered how much could I worsen my situation, really, if I took a little dive off the edge of the platform we were standing on. My rapport with this family was already nightmarish levels of bad, what's one more tiny incident?

But Cass was suddenly at my side, acting as an unintentional barrier in my plan.

"Tour first," she declared, hooking her arm with mine.

Or, actually, maybe not unintentional. This wasn't the first time Cass seemed like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Are you psychic?" I found myself asking. (It had occurred to me before, but only now I had reasons to actually consider the possibility.)

Cass giggled with an odd pride in her eyes, just as a few surprised chuckles around us let me know that I’d been wrong.

"No," she shook her head, "I read bodies. Not minds."

'Reading bodies' didn't actually clear up much, but I was a pretty big fan of the 'if they wanted to explain it, they would' policy, and so I kept my questions to myself.

"Badass," I said instead.

"Do you?" She returned the question.

"What, read minds?" I asked, to which she nodded completely nonchalantly. "Oh, no, my stuff is not... Like that."

'Stuff'? That's what we're calling it?

I'd love to be able to blame my social ineptitude on the situation, but, let's be real here, this was all on me.

At least, they seemed to have picked up on it and, since getting down here, had pretended to have things to do and made up excuses to turn their attention away from me. Jason and Damian went quietly off to another room, and Tim and Dick had headed for the biggest computer screen I'd seen in my entire existence.

Bruce and Cass were right next to me, with Steph and Duke trailing behind us.

But there was only so much walking to do, and eventually we had to slow to a stop.

"Welcome to the Batcave," welcomed Dick, theatrically turning to me and gesturing towards our surroundings.

Wait a second.

"Did you just..?” I blinked, a frown and a grin forming in my face, “You actually call it bat cave?"

“Yep.” 

(So maybe I was trying to delay the conversation. So what? You would do it too, in my situation.)

(I hope.)

“I thought it was just a meme,” I explained, not realizing at that moment that they most certainly knew about the meme, “I can’t believe it’s real.”

"It's real and it's all his fault," Steph told me, stealing Bruce's place at my right, hooking my free arm with hers, and pointing at Dick accusatively. "He was the first under the age of 40 to come down here, so he put the bat prefix on everything."

He'd named everything, and he was the oldest, which probably meant... "You were Robin, then?"

I barely had to wait for an answer, his grin giving it away before he could even nod, so I soon found myself putting names with faces— or masks, in this case.

I was slightly surprised at the amount of them I already knew, and with each connection that my brain made I found myself more and more dumbfounded.

I knew who Batman was. The thought threatened to implode my brain.

And yet, I still didn’t know everything, and my expression must have been pretty obvious since in an instant Steph was filling the gaps:

"Former Robin is now Nightwing," she said, pointing at Dick, and then continued to list all of their identities, with such nonchalance you would have thought she was giving me their zodiac signs.

But I don't think all the chillness in the world could let anyone forget the severity of what I'd just been told. In a way, it almost felt like an apology, a sorry we didn’t tell you, even if we all know they didn’t have any other options. Things started out the only way they could've, realistically, but that didn’t mean we had to acknowledge it. We could start again, and even if we couldn’t, the ending was still in our hands.

And in the face of that, all I found myself able to do was point at myself next and finish the roll call.

"Phantom."

To my surprise, Steph grinned, shaking our arms in childish glee.

"This is so exciting!"

“And kinda insane, to be honest,” added Duke, sounding puzzled and looking almost guilty about it, “no offense, but I mean, what are the chances?”

“The superhero gene theory suddenly has a lot more merit,” Tim smiled, with an uncertainty that I didn’t remember seeing on him so far.

I could still feel the heavy tension between us, even when neither of us was actively trying to maintain it anymore. I cracked a smile at his comment, the most transparent white flag I could muster.

But of course, that didn’t erase the fact that he’d just grouped me with them. As in, on the same level.

Which was a first.

“Well, I’m not really...” I tried to gesture at them, but it ended up looking more like a muscle spasm and I was forced to actually use my words, "a hero, exactly?"

"Well, we're technically considered vigilantes by most people," reassured me Dick, the only one whose face of confusion lasted less than a second.

"I don't think I classify as a vigilante, either."

"Why not?" He then asked, his smile unwavering.

I felt a little ridiculous saying it outloud, especially since I had assumed that they would have figured it out by now. I mean, detectives, right? They’d looked into the situation in Amity by now, I was almost completely certain. So they had to know, but they were asking anyways and I couldn’t really come up with a reason not to answer, so I did in spite of it all:

"Because I don't really fight crime? I mean, it’s almost nonexistent now but still, all I ever really did was corral ghosts back to the Realms."

A strange sort of silence settled in, just for a few seconds, before Duke shrugged and broke it: "You helped people with it, though. Pretty sure that counts."

An overly optimistic way of putting it, but I wasn't gonna fight it. Right now I was going to take all the wins I could.

Cass and Steph took that as their cue to start the tour, which ended up being disappointingly shorter than expected. The space was huge but very open, and so it wasn't difficult to just point out the different areas and explain what they were for.

The only thing that actually took us a while were the suit displays and the souvenirs,— which included a T-Rex? For some reason? His name was Fido, apparently, but there had been no clear answer when I asked why he existed in the first place.

My eyes met Bruce’s/Batman’s when we were starting to wrap it up, and I could feel an invisible hand clenching my insides into a ball.

“Nervous?” Asked Steph, quietly, after realizing.

“That’s one word for it,” I managed to reply, forcing a smile onto my face. The concern I could feel coming off her increased, however, so I clearly hadn’t been very successful.

I stole a glance at Cass and found her looking at Steph, locked into a silent conversation that I completely missed for the most part. But concern swiftly turned to doubt and then to determination, and with that bit of cheating I reached a conclusion that, more or less, sounded like ‘they think I changed my mind about this’. And any other time I would’ve taken the L and called it a day, but...

But I’d known this wasn’t gonna be fun. And I’d still decided to do it.

So I took a deep breath.

Alright, Dylan, let’s be mature about this. Communicate what you’re feeling.

“This is gonna suck,” I said, for lack of a better word. “I’ve never had to explain it to anybody before. The people that know about this... Just know.”

"The girls that get it, get it," nodded Steph, sagely, and I couldn’t help but snort a chuckle.

"What I mean is that I'm the one getting things explained, usually," I said, hoping my honesty made it to my voice, "I don't know where to begin."

“Y’know, I don’t think that’s gonna be much of a problem for long,” Steph hummed, thoughtfully, and Cass was nodding along almost immediately.

“What do you mean?”

“Nosy,” Cass shrugged, pointing with her eyes back at where the others had congregated, “lots of questions.”

That... Was an excellent point, honestly. I didn’t know what to tell them, but if anyone had any ideas, it was bound to be them.

I nodded as the reassurance seemed to travel down my body, easing my nerves a bit.

“Let’s get started before I psyche myself out,” I said. “Again.”

Chapter Text

Dylan only realized that Jason and Damian had gone off to get changed when she found herself looking at Robin and Red Hood instead.

(Well, “instead” was not an ideal word. They were still the same people, obviously, yet for all intents and purposes...)

Dylan shook her head softly, and Jason was glad to pretend he didn't notice her staring. He was even more glad to realize there was no green demanding otherwise. It was dampening again.

She was dampening it again.

And fuck, but Jason really hoped that whatever she was gonna say cleared that up for him. Because, to be really fucking honest, he wasn't under any delusions of knowledge here. The list of things he knew about the pit rage was slim, near non-existent.

But he'd thought he understood it. That he was starting to, at least. And then Dylan had come along, putting it on a timeout with no noticeable effort.

Dylan's eyes moved on from him to Robin, and it took her just a second to look away from the bruise around his neck,— which was not fast enough for him not to notice, if the scowl was anything to go by.

He'd been wearing a turtleneck before, which hadn't seemed out of character to Dylan, so her brain had given it no further thought: She'd saved him and that was the end of that.

It was honestly funny, how much it shocked her to remember that it was very much not the end of that for everyone.

For humans , as a matter of fact, it rarely was,— and though Dylan hadn't forgotten that, there had been a few hours where she'd felt like—

Like they were the same.

The giddy excitement in the back of her mind had spent the entire time convinced that they were like her,— better than her. Unstoppable, untouchable, invincible.

But actions had consequences. Humans paid them for far longer than she did. 

Cass had led her to one of the stairs leading down from the main platform, (where the bat computer was, a name that Dylan still couldn't believe,) and had sat down elbow to elbow, as the others found ways to lounge nearby in spite of the lack of furniture meant for that.

Steph sat almost directly in front of them, in the training mats, with Duke joining her soon. Tim stayed at the computer, while Bruce leaned against a handrail to the side and Dick dragged Damian to the training mat as well.

And then, to more than one person's surprise, Jason sat down next to Dylan, making a point not to touch her.

She could feel his emotions a little more clearly than his siblings, and she picked up a hint of protectiveness and something that felt like defiance, even though she wasn't trying to.

And for the first time in her life, she felt guilty about it.

Before, it had been easy to justify it, to tell herself that this ability,— as weak and often ignored as it had been, before the C-word that rhymed with damnation,— was her only way to even the playing field in the face of a world that seemed to hate her.

But now,— Well. Now it just felt like cheating. Like taking the whole premise of the conversation, (you know, honesty,) and spitting on it.

"Your 'stuff'?" Asked Cass, eyes innocently wide, "Just now?"

It took Dylan a second to figure out what she meant, but between the re-use of her earlier words, (as unclear as they'd been to begin with,) and how well Cass seemed to read her...

It wasn't hard to realize that she somehow knew Dylan had done more than just glance at Jason.

"Uh, yeah, sorry." It also wasn't hard to realize that it looked pretty bad. Dylan just wanted to cover her bases. "It's not on purpose."

"What isn't?" Jason asked,— maybe out of plain curiosity, maybe because he knew it involved him, Dylan didn't know.

What she did know,— what she was intimately familiar with, actually,— was the feeling of fight or flight activating in her brain. It had been a daily occurrence, not that long ago.

And it was something that she knew she was going to experience today, so it would've been impossible for her to be surprised by it.

Which didn't mean, necessarily, that she was prepared for it.

"I... Recently got a new— well, not new new, but almost... You know how before I could look at people's auras?" Bruce nodded, and so did a few of the others. Dylan forced her shoulders to relax. "Now, I kinda just feel those emotions without having to actively try. Before I could sort of do it, but... Yeah."

Okay. Okay, that could have been worse. There we go. Wasn't that hard, now, was it?

Cass looked at her sister and put a single hand on her knee, even if she wanted to do more. She wouldn't, though. Dylan felt trapped enough. A hug can be a cage sometimes.

"Sick!" Exclaimed Steph, grinning, either unaware (unlikely) or willingly ignoring the shame in Dylan's posture. "Oh, oh! What am I feeling right now?"

"I—"

"Dude, you don't need to be an empath to know you're excited as hell," interrupted Duke, nonchalant but playful, and Dylan promised herself she would deliver his soul to Heaven personally when the time came.

"Shhh, let her do her thing!" She replied, playfully shoving him aside.

"It's... Basically that, yeah," Dylan had to admit. Steph didn't need to know, or at least hear, about the pity that Dylan could sense beneath her excitement. "Besides, you're all— Um, I guess more closed off than the average person? People sort of project their emotions outwards, but you..."

Dick chuckled. "Yeah, fighting the occasional telepath will do that to you," he commented, halfheartedly shrugging.

Sue him, but Dick was not going to let the kid feel like a weirdo, especially not when surrounded by her own family. There was more than enough weirdness to go around, thank you very much.

"It's a relief, honestly, because I don't have the best handle on it yet," she added, voice soft, and then reassured, "it shouldn't be too hard, I just... Haven't had a lot of time to practice."

"Busy week?" Steph smirked, playful.

"You've no idea," Dylan sighed, a sudden exhaustion overtaking her whole body. "This whole year's just—..."

This, Dylan had to remind herself, is not what she was there to do. She was supposed to explain her freaky-ass existence, not complain about it.

She cleared her throat, ignoring the heat in her cheeks.

"Anyway. I..." Then again, there was a reason why she hadn't started explaining. "...Don't really know where to start."

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Suggested Dick, unhelpfully.

Because, yeah, that was a possibility. But without prior knowledge, the beginning was just as confusing as any other part.

She would know.

"Basics," prompted Cass, making Dylan nod, "then storytime."

"Sure," she said, looking at the rest of her audience and finding no complaints, "we can do that."

Okay then.

Steph shot her a double thumbs up and Dylan clapped her hands together, reawakening this years-old memory of an awkward substitute teacher.

No going back now.

“So. Basics. Ghosts exist." Kinda obvious, by now. "They inhabit a parallel plane of existence called the Neverending Realms, a.k.a. the Ghost Zone. It's what my parents studied. Not all ghosts stay there, and— they're also not the only species there."

Dylan was actually kind of amazed at how well she'd summarized that, which sadly didn't erase the fact that no amount of summarizing would be enough to get through all of it in one go.

But it didn't take more than an instant after having thought that for the realization to hit her: she had a lot of ground to cover before she had to start worrying about having covered everything. 

Which wasn’t exactly a problem solved, since nobody was going to enjoy covering said ground. Specifically, and dangerously approaching at the speed of sound, the subject of what exactly she was,— and the unavoidable follow up: what events had made her that way.

(If she was lucky, one of them would have a breakdown about it before she did, and her dignity would live to see another day.)

(Then again, Fenton Luck wasn't exactly known for being kind.)

But, if nothing else, that at least meant she had more than enough things to stall with.

"Unrelated to what my parents did for a living, I was born as the Bridge, which is like... Someone meant to keep the balance between the living and the dead," and for the sake of honesty, she had to add: "As far as I know, at least. It’s given at random and it didn’t exactly come with instructions.”

For the sake of honesty was exactly the thought going through Bruce's head, coincidentally.

Because it was obvious that, if Dylan knew they knew about the Bridge, then she wouldn't be explaining it so in depth. Unless she was worried that they had gotten it wrong,— a completely valid concern, considering they had,— but in either case, for the sake of honesty...

"We know the basics of that," he confessed, surprising a few of his kids, "when I first saw the footage of our conversation in the station, I called in a magic user who explained it to us."

Dylan nodded, not looking fully surprised. "When was that?"

"The night you came back, after we talked."

Instead of looking hurt, his daughter looked thoughtful. Nobody was sure how to feel about that.

Much less about what she asked next:

"Why didn't you say anything?" She asked, with a calm curiosity in her voice.

"I didn't—..."

Steph didn't let him go on, which was a small blessing since Bruce wasn't sure he could.

"Allegedly it was because he didn't have enough information," she explained, with a grin that let Dylan know nobody believed him, "but I think that's the closest he can get to respecting other people's privacy."

Dylan nearly laughed, only stopping out of fear of being mean. (Or a hypocrite. It's not like she was in any position to judge, after all.)

"That doesn't bother you?" Asked Jason, with a curt tone that she couldn't read, and emotions that didn't clarify it.

Dylan sighed. "I would have done the same," she admitted. "And it's not like I respected your privacies, either. My friends have been snooping a lot."

"But they didn't tell you?" Asked Tim before he could stop himself.

And Tim really, truly, wholeheartedly wished he could have stopped himself. The girl had enough reasons to hate him without him questioning her (...any more than he already had.)

Steph and Cass hadn't told B about the note they'd found outside her room, and Tim knew that at this point they weren't going to, but he wasn’t sure anymore whether that was a good thing or not.

It wasn't your fault, she'd said. And she'd said it when she intended to never see him again, so Tim could believe that she'd meant it. But just because she didn't blame him didn't mean she understood it. Just because he wasn’t the reason she was going to leave didn’t mean she had forgiven him.

And, again, even though it made him sound like an asshole, Tim knew that if it came down to it, he’d do it again. Because somebody had to. She’d turned out to be good but they’d had no real way of knowing it at first, and if she hadn’t...

Tim could have,— and should have,— been nicer about it, yes, but he wasn’t sorry.

Dylan, the literal empath, knew that.

And yet, when he met her eyes, he saw none of the things he'd been expecting. No annoyance, or irritation, or defensiveness, just... The same anxious, sad face she'd had the entire time. Like Tim was just as deserving of answers as the rest of them. Like his opinion mattered to her just as much as theirs.

"They couldn't," she explained, "there are laws against interfering with the living on purpose."

"Interference," Damian said, narrowed eyes flashing in recognition.

"Oh, you heard..?" Dylan's eyes widened, but she abandoned that sentence soon after: "Yeah, the Law of Interference. Can’t interfere with the affairs of the living."

"So the ghosts that attacked Amity Park were breaking ghost law?" Duke mused, almost to himself, but turned to look at her when he asked: "Weren't there other ghosts to stop them?"

There should’ve been, but Dylan knew she couldn’t tell them that. That’s why those ghosts had come to Amity, after all: There was no one who could stop them.

At first, at least. As she got stronger, and actually able to hold her own, it seemed as if the ghosts that showed up (and the regulars that kept coming back,) were doing it to fight her, specifically, and not just to cause problems for the hell of it.

"Uh, well, technically yes, but the Realms are infinite, so there isn't a single unified government, and those that exist have very defined borders, so most of them got off without any consequences."

"But not your friends," Bruce said, guessing when he didn't actually need to, his voice carrying a soft gentleness that made Dylan wince.

"No,” she confirmed, “between one of the ghosts that I fight owning a prison, and the Observants keeping tabs on me, they'd never get away with it."

It was a second after she'd closed her mouth that she realized the concern she'd created in each of their souls. What happened to not complaining about her freaky-ass existence?

"One of your rouges owns a prison?" Duke asked, in between horror and disbelief.

Dylan could only nod.

"Who are the Observants?" Followed up Dick, trying to reel his emotions back.

"Just—” How the fuck does one explain this? “These guys that keep watch over the timeline. Allegedly."

Dylan was not very good at not complaining, apparently.

"Then why would they watch you?"

"Damian," admonished Bruce.

"Are we not here to clear our doubts?" He replied, on the polite end of challenging. 

There was silence for a few tense seconds, where everyone waited to see if Bruce would deny it. It was only after he didn’t that attentions started turning back towards Dylan, and it quickly became clear that the question had struck a nerve.

Her face seemed to have gone completely still for an instant, only relaxing again as Cass took one of Dylan's hands in hers.

"It's long and complicated," the girl said, surprisingly serene, "but the bottom line is that they don't trust me."

"Why not?" Damian insisted.

"That would be the long and complicated part," she replied simply.

Tim took that as his cue to get the conversation back on track, much to Dylan's relief.

"Wait, but back to the interference thing," Dylan's shoulders untensed, and Tim felt a little ridiculous at how much that reassured him. "How does that work for you?"

"Super annoyingly, to be honest,” she sighed, making Steph crack up. “It applies to me and for me, depending on what benefits the Observants more at the time. It's a whole thing."

"Sounds like it."

“But you’re not a ghost,” argued Dick, a little too forceful for the tone he was aiming for, “you have powers but—...”

Dylan could only stare, but that was more than enough to make him stop himself.

It had been a long time coming and she had no right to act like she didn’t know that, but the silence in the room suddenly threatened to crush her and shit, she really wasn’t prepared for this.

"Dylan," called Bruce, voice heavy, "are you dead?"

Dylan froze.

Was she?

Would she ever know the answer to that? Did anyone?

"I don’t—...” She started, but she had to swallow and try again, “There’s no simple answer. I am and I’m not, both things at the same time.”

Bruce's grief stabbed itself into her heart, sharp and blinding and overwhelming, only barely disguising the pain of his children that was quick to follow.

(Full offense, but Dylan had a new least favorite power.)

It was a conscious effort to not start reading into their feelings. No human had grieved her before, and she really wasn't sure how she’d handle that, much less how they’d handle that piece of information.

Instead, what she did was start talking again:

"I died and then I half came back. Or I only half died to begin with, I don't know for sure. It's not a very documented phenomenon." The nonchalance seemed to be working, as a few of the bats seemed to be recovering from the revelation. "I'm something called a liminal, a hybrid between species. I think. Information hasn’t been easy to find."

"What have you found?"

"...Not much. I haven't been looking for long."

"What does that mean?"

"I found out liminals were a thing during the time I ran away. Up until that point I thought I was just... An anomaly, I guess."

"And nobody told you?" Asked Duke, sounding slightly horrified.

"I wasn't the most beloved person in the world, as far as ghosts were concerned. It's a long story but the bottomline is that spirits no longer trust the Bridge. So after the accident, those that knew about liminals already knew me as the Bridge, so..." Dylan shrugged.

"The accident was when..?"

"Yeah," she replied, voice suddenly tight. No one missed the way her whole body turned to stone, rigid and unmoving, at the mention. "I don't want to talk about that."

"You don't have to," Bruce was quick to assure, grief sparking back to life.

“I will also warn you that asking a ghost about their death is not— Not a good idea," she replied, almost successfully holding her voice steady, "it’s almost impossible for ghosts to control their reactions to it."

“Of course.”

“Break time,” Cass declared, standing up with determination, “snacks. Help me?” She asked, turning back to her seat partner.

Dylan didn’t need to be asked twice.

She was inside the elevator before anyone could even react.

Chapter Text

When the elevator door opened up to reveal the study, the sigh that escaped me nearly made me tear up.

Talking— Even thinking about the accident should’ve been getting easier by now, but it wasn’t. The thought alone made my body freeze and now I’d have to see that exact thought reflected back in the eyes of all of them.

They knew I had died,— and sooner or later, no matter whether I told them or not, they’d learn about how. Their sources had been a little off about the Bridge but there’s some facts about ghosts that are nowhere near as obscure, and it was a matter of time before they knew a lot more than I was comfortable with.

A little late for that, huh.

Even the knowledge that they believed me, and were willing to accept whatever explanation I gave them couldn’t ease my panic. I had one rule, one singular fucking goal, and that was “act normal,”— something I’d failed to do repeatedly and spectacularly.

And it was fine, they knew but they believed me so everything was okay—... It was just that my body seemed to not have gotten the memo yet. (A whole life of keeping secrets will do that to you, it seems: Them knowing, anyone knowing, would never be fine. That was not a possibility that my brain was able to compute.)

But none of this was new and I should’ve been fucking prepared for this. I had told myself I was prepared for it. I had told them I was prepared for it.

They were going to ask what the fuck I was. Obviously. And when I was unable to give them details, they’d either go looking for them or stumble upon them, because that’s what detectives do. And then they would know, and they would look at me and see it.

And I didn't know if I'd be able to take it.

It was one thing for ghosts to know,— They all did, and they all had for long before I'd even been born. It was really simple: For a ghost to be formed, they need ectoplasm. For a ghost to be formed powerful, they need pain. The worse the death, the more “advanced” the ghost, as if the Realms decided you wouldn’t need the training wheels. You got to skip ahead of the line and got thrown in the deep end as a result.

(I’d had a fully formed core right out of the portal, according to Frostbite: I had my ghost sense thanks to it. And he believed the reason why my powers had been so unreliable at first, was because I was spending most of my ghostly energy in claiming an entire human city as my Keep. I hadn’t known how to respond to that at the time, so I hadn’t. He was still waiting for an answer.)

All ghosts got more powerful with time, so what made one stand out was how fast they did. Having the power of a fully developed ghost as soon as you died, for example, was a very simple quick way of getting people to talk. (Phantom was, unsurprisingly, a hot topic of discussion.)

All of this was pretty basic stuff. And sooner rather than later, they were going to find out about it. But they weren't ghosts. They wouldn't get it. They would try, but— But their chances of success were near zero.

I'd set them up for failure. 

What a mess. To fuck it up any worse you’d need a doctorate in uselessness.

“Did good,” Cass told me, almost arguing with my thoughts, “good job. Just... Difficult job, too. It's okay.”

I couldn't help but laugh, feeling both ridiculous and strangely comforted. The painful tension in my jaw wasn't budging yet, but I pushed through it anyway to reply: “As good as it could, really. But thanks.” Hopefully she'd understand how much ground was covered by that word.

“Better, how?” She challenged, kindly, leaning on the desk.

I could lie. I wouldn’t get away with it, not with her staring right at me like this, but I could still try.

“I should’ve— Just, actually thought out what I’d say?” I’d gone through enough humiliations, though, so maybe just take the L on this one. “I was caught off guard by the most predictable question ever.”

Her eyebrows raised just barely, looking thoughtful.

“Not the question,” she replied, tilting her head just barely, “the answer,” she corrected, stressing the word. Luckily she wasn’t letting me be the one to decipher her words: “Honesty is hard. Trust... Is scary. And, the first time? Is the worst. They all know. We all know.”

Fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

(Was that really the first time I’d told people..? It couldn’t be. So many people knew, it was literally impossible. I had to have been honest about it before, right?)

(Then again why would Cass lie about that?)

The quiet study allowed me to relax again, slowly pushing away the images my brain wanted me to relive.

There were reasons why I tried not to think about the accident.

If I focused, I could still feel the electricity, the burnt smell, the sizzling of my skin. The memory was just a blink away, eternally available to me, just as vivid as the real thing, just as painful, just as overwhelming. It was like I was always just one step away from being inside the portal, frozen in place, watching what it looks like to tear a hole in reality that tears you open right back.

If I focused, I could die over and over again. I could spend the rest of my life dying. In a way, I already was.

“I am very sorry,” Cass said, cutting through the haze in my brain.

And next thing I knew, an invisible door opened and her emotions reached me clearly for the first time.

Not grief. Condolences.

I went to open my mouth and realized the tightness in my throat wouldn't exactly allow that.

“We get snacks now?” Cass asked.

Good thing she didn't actually need to hear my answer, because there was absolutely nothing I could say to describe what I was feeling at that second. Being patient with a dumbass was a skill, not a talent.

...Frostbite and her would get along, wouldn’t they.

The silence in the cave once the elevator doors closed was suffocating, and for a moment it felt like nothing in the world would be able to break it.

Dylan was dead.

Dead, but alive, alive and dead, both, somehow, and she’d—

“B,” called out Dick, blankly. But there was nothing to say, was there? He wasn't okay, none of them were, and they couldn't grieve a person that was alive but they had lost her, hadn't they? Even if in a way they'd never had her in the first place.

It was confusing. It was overwhelming. It was painful.

And Bruce—

Bruce wanted to be better. Truly. But as he felt the lure of old habits, he could do nothing to avoid falling into them.

(He knew children died. He hadn't known it could happen to his, back then.)

(But things were different now.)

So he stood up and headed back to the computer.

On one hand there were the many things about this that he wasn't ready to acknowledge, wasn't able to deal with... And on the other were the rest.

He double checked that the recorder was working, and gave a quick overview to the transcript from the text to speech.

Everything was in order. (In the computer, at least.)

“B,” Dick called again.

“What.”

His son was a lot closer now. Behind him, in the battle ground they'd just survived, the others had started to move too. Steph’s head had quietly dropped onto Duke’s shoulder, and their arms had linked in solidarity, even though neither of them seemed eager to acknowledge it.

Jason had stood up from his seat and promptly gone rigid, face blank and nearly unblinking. There was no green.

Tim, on his part, seemed to be unable to stop moving, subtly and casually and not quite enough to hide the tension.

Damian had vanished. Bruce wished he could have a bigger reaction to that, but as it stood all he managed was to simply make a note of that fact.

“Don't do this,” Dick asked, quietly. There wasn't any need for clarification: Bruce knew what he meant. And Bruce knew he shouldn’t. He knew Dick was right. 

But he didn’t know what other option he had, either.

“She’s not dead,” Dick started again, this time with even more denial.

“But she’s not alive, either,” replied Jason, grimly. Dick looked like he couldn't answer that. Jason didn't care. He was only half listening, anyway.

Did he have the right to say he knew how Dylan felt? He couldn’t do what she could, but that wasn’t enough to say he was alive. They’d told him he’d never felt like the person he was before his death, and that it was part of being back, but now...

Now there were more possibilities. And Jason didn't like that, in spite of the objective knowledge that he should.

“She’s still here,” Duke said with conviction. “That’s what matters, right? What she is— How she is here, that's secondary.”

“Yeah,” replied Tim, voice nowhere near as steady.

“Yeah,” echoed Steph, before standing up and shaking the grim mood off of her. “But I don't think this conference is helping. Someone should be out patrolling, anyways.”

Duke hesitated, but soon enough followed her lead. Bruce would stay, obviously, and so would Jason, since he still had a lot of unanswered questions that, unlike theirs, were actually time sensitive. Cass was probably not going anywhere either, as she was the official holder of the emotional intelligence brain cell.

That was three people, three virtual strangers, to whom Dylan would be baring her soul to.

Three was a small number, usually, but right now, three was crossing over into way too many territory.

Tim, it seemed, had made the same headcount and reached the same conclusion, since he nodded, almost mindlessly, and headed for the dressing rooms, just barely behind Steph.

Dick only moved after shooting Bruce a very expressive look. A next look, this time around the cave, allowed him to locate Damian, and silently ask the boy to wait for him and patrol together.

Damian nodded, and Dick left. He left behind a heavy silence that nobody tried to break.

There were enough broken things as it was, anyway.

Chapter Text

When Dylan returned to the Cave, trailing behind Cass, the confusion on her face lasted less than a moment before giving room to relief. (Steph had made the right call, unsurprisingly.) She didn’t ask where everyone had gone, and none of the remaining bats thought to bring it up either.

Their previous subject went just as ignored. The conversation took a scientific turn, instead, focusing on ghosts and ectoplasm and the Zone, in a tentative light-heartedness that almost felt out of place.

Armed with an unsteady sense of detachment they were able to pretend, at least, that nobody had anything at stake.

The only thing that managed to bring back the tension was an unexpected arrival, the voice only noticeable by one person—

—Are you omitting the corruptions?

“Motherf-!”

Dylan snapped her mouth shut and did her best to pretend she hadn’t just nearly jumped out of her skin,— only to remember it was pointless and then whip her head around to meet unimpressed dark eyes staring back at her.

—d’Eon? How long have you been standing there?— She muttered, before she could think better of it. (At least she'd remembered to use the right intonation this time.)

The ghost smiled with the same bullshit politeness she'd used the last time she nearly gave Dyl a heart attack, and replied only with a head gesture towards the humans in the room.

Dylan could scream right now.

...Right.

“Sorry about that,” she winced, turning back to them but unable to actually meet their eyes, even as Cass scooted her chair closer in what was likely a reassuring gesture.

“Is everything okay?” Asked Bruce, whose voice seemed to have dropped a few octaves. His eyes were subtly scanning the area she'd turned to, with a focused and grim anticipation.

Great, she'd traumatized him. Daughter of the fucking year, everybody.

“Yep ,” she replied, as cool as a baked potato, “I just got startled. Nothing to worry about.”

It wasn't a lie. It was actually true in more ways than one. 

(Was this how things were supposed to be now? They were chill with the whole ghosts thing and she was expected to-, to what? To bring it up in conversation? Let them know when someone stopped by? That was absolutely freaking insane and god damn it, all this talking and it still wasn’t enough to know what the hell she was supposed to be doing now.)

“Do you need a moment?”

“No, no, I just... I got some feedback. That I didn’t ask for,” Dylan replied, maybe too honestly.

—I was merely curious, that is all.— d’Eon chimed in, making her miss the bats’ reactions.

They’d said they were fine with the knowledge of what she could do, but was that strictly theoretical, or were they expecting field notes?

Dylan had a lot to figure out still, but instead she couldn’t help but notice that d’Eon seemed far less guarded than she’d been before.

In spite of the ghost’s attitude, the way she was smirking felt a little like she was expecting Dyl to laugh alongside her,— unlike last time, where the joke had undoubtedly been on her.

(Which was certainly going to be overanalyzed later, when she got a little privacy, but for now she wasn't about to complain.)

“Anyway, so... Back to the whole filtered ectoplasm thing,” she said, deciding to roll with the punches because at this point, what else was there to do? “My folks called the filtered part ‘impure ectoplasm’, and they weren't exactly wrong, but...”

Dylan sighed.

This had been a very recent addition to her understanding of the realms, so she couldn't help but rely on the exact words she'd heard back at the castle,— especially with d’Eon still looming over her shoulder.

“Impure ectoplasm is caused by something called the Corruption.” Even without any further explanation, the name was grim enough to bring down the mood even more. “When they interact, ectoplasm becomes corrupted. A majority of the ectoplasm in the realms is impure, but there's levels to it. Some of it is harmless, some it's not.”

“Levels?” Repeated Cass with a tilt of her head.

“Depending on the amount, I think. I don't know a lot. I haven't had a chance to ask, now that there's people who will answer.”

Getting off track! A voice warned her in the back of her mind.

“Sounds like there's no rush, then,” placated Jason, “right?”

“I—...” Jason was there for a reason. Dylan was pretty sure she knew what that reason was. But that didn't mean she knew how to go about it. “There shouldn't be, but maybe? Apparently there's a bunch of it on Earth.”

Bruce's attention perked up in a way that would have been comical, if not for the subject at hand.

“Do you know where?”

“Not exactly, but you might..?” She replied, wincing. Bruce had to make himself stay silent and give her time to answer. “There’s lakes full of it on Earth. Tucker said you guys knew of them.”

And if their reactions were anything to go by, Dylan should have mentioned that a while ago. Bruce's face was frozen and Jason looked like he was about to throw up, but when she noticed that even Cass looked surprised, Dylan thought she'd pass out.

“The Lazarus’ Pits,” Bruce murmured, almost for himself. It took him exactly that long to gather himself. “You think it's ectoplasm?” He asked his daughter, calmly, and putting aside any emotions he didn't think would help. He had yet to fully gauge the extent of her powers, and until then Bruce didn't want to take any chances. 

“I'm fairly sure, yeah. I mean, I haven't seen them, but it's not like my friends could be mistaken. Apparently it felt very weird, but it couldn't be anything else.”

“Weird how?” Dylan blanked. Visibly, it seemed, because Bruce moved on almost immediately. “What does corrupted ectoplasm do differently?”

d’Eon snorted. Dylan regretted not being able to glare at her.

“Is it mean?” Cass asked softly, and it took a second to click that she wasn't talking about the corruption.

“She,” Dylan corrected mindlessly, but then shook off the awe that always came with Cass’ observations and actually replied, “she's a she and she is being a smartass, but it's alright, don't worry.”

—I believe any ghost would find that question funny, Your Majesty,— she defended herself, grinning and not sounding sorry in the slightest.

—And why is that?— Dylan replied. The implication that she should be laughing too hit a little too close to home, considering that she didn't know why and not for a lack of asking.

Dylan didn't care if she looked crazy, she turned to d'Eon and stared, daring her to laugh again.

None of them had bothered answering any of her questions before, and now she had the nerve to fucking laugh at her for not knowing?

But to her surprise, the ghost's smile fell into a sober look of realization.

—...You don't know,— she realized out loud, with an emotion that Dylan didn't care to identify.

—How the fuck am I supposed to?— Dylan hissed back, refusing to read into any of the emotions that were starting to resurface.— Until a week ago I was the scum of the Earth, and now I'm supposed to be the expert?— Dylan wasn't expecting an answer. She hadn't been getting any before. She turned her back to the ghost. “If you're not going to help, get lost.”

“She sounds lovely,” snarked Jason, glaring vaguely at d'Eon's general location.

Dylan took a deep breath and decided now was a great time to get a grip. But life had other plans, because when did it not?

“It's funny to ask what corrupted ectoplasm does,” d'Eon said, and it took Dylan a second to notice she was talking in the First Intonation, “because the simple answer is everything.”

Dylan turned again and found that d'Eon was now a lot more opaque, which meant—

She turned back and the three humans were staring directly at her.

She was visible.

What?

—You said help or leave, did you not?— The woman asked, only for Dylan's ears, and though she definitely sounded sarcastic, something in her told Dylan that the question was genuine. “Pure ectoplasm is energy. By itself, it does nothing. Without the Corruption, there'd be nothing else. No ghosts, no lairs, no portals. Is that interaction what allows us to exist.”

“How do you know that?” Asked Bruce, in a calculatedly monotone voice.

“It is a Fact,” d’Eon replied, simply.

“The Facts are knowledge that ghosts get when they become ghosts,” Dylan chimed in, before anyone could ask. “I didn't get them, clearly.”

Dylan, with her back semi turned to the ghost, didn't notice the pensive look her face took. The bats, however, did.

“In small quantities it creates life,” Bruce said, looking confident but not sounding it.

d’Eon manifested a fan out of nowhere to cover her laugh. “Life, dear Knight, is somewhat of a loaded word where we're from.” 

Dylan hadn't really found that to be true, in her experience, but most of her encounters had been with relatively young ghosts. Maybe the older ones did take offense, and only because of that she kept her mouth shut.

“Then?” Replied Jason, with a face of stone that Dylan hadn't seen on him before.

“Let's call it existence, shall we?”

Bruce looked pretty annoyed, and intimidating as it was, Dylan found herself feeling validated.

“What happens when existence was already created, and more corruption comes in contact with it?”

“The specifics are anyone's guess,” she said, waving her hand back and forth. “Like any disease, symptoms and severity will depend on both the patient, and the infection itself.”

“Can it be cured?”

“Again—”

“It depends,” Bruce parroted back, unamused.

The ghost smiled, knowingly, and hid half of her face behind her fan. Somewhere above them, the echo of a hiss reverberated through the spirit plane,— something cold and furious, something itching to hurt.

“I fear I’m starting to overstay my welcome,” d’Eon excused herself, once Dylan was already meeting her eyes. The warning was contained, for now, in the higher floors. But it wouldn’t be forever.

“Yeah,” the girl replied, just in case she was waiting for permission. d’Eon didn’t seem to have been, though, instead quickly vanishing from view. Dylan regretted not being able to tell if she’d actually left or not. (Maybe, one day, this place could be enough of a home to her for her to notice new presences in the Manor.)

“Wait,” Jason called out, deciding to bite the ghostly bullet while he still could, “can that corruption also affect living people?”

When Dylan turned to look at him, she found she wasn’t the only one to do so. Jason’s face was inscrutable.

He had been in that lake, Dylan recalled easily, so he had reasons to be concerned. But that alone couldn't be the reason he was looking at her like that.

“Yeah,” she replied, almost afraid of their reactions, “it can latch onto anything that gets too close.”

Bruce’s voice was the only thing that managed to cut through the heavy silence that settled after that revelation:

“How do ghosts deal with being infected with corrupted ectoplasm?”

The look he sent her way after nearly gave Dylan whiplash.

It was a simple question, in and of itself, but there was no denying that something else was happening here, something that she was missing, and not knowing what it was made her hyper aware of the flaws in all the answers she could've given him.

“Uh—... We don’t, technically. It’s filtered out automatically, like an immune system.”

“Filtered how?” Bruce followed up.

Crap. Dylan had been really hoping they wouldn’t have to get into that.

Cores were the ones in charge of doing that, just like they were in charge of doing everything. That, by itself, wasn't really that big of a secret.

The secret she was worried about was the existence of the High Core,— the one responsible for dealing with all the corrupted ectoplasm that reached the Realms, including what infected any ghost without a core. If they asked her about that she'd have no other answer.

But maybe she could still get away without giving it.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to answer that.”

Bruce started to reply, questions and doubts barely forming, but nothing managed to come out before Jason interrupted:

“You heard her,” Jason said, harshly, and effectively shutting down any further questions, “drop it.”

Jason, who had died.

Jason, who had come back to life.

The weird temple, the pool, the green water that should be ectoplasm but acted like anything but.

Holy shit.

“Wait,” Dylan asked— holy fucking shit,— trying to act normal, “why do you want to know?”

She didn’t know anything for sure, but fuck, none of this was painting a good picture. If there actually was corrupted ectoplasm in that thing, if his soul had been near it, if—

She had no way of knowing if it could’ve affected him,— let alone how, but why else would they be so invested? It's true that she had never thought possible that impure ectoplasm could cling to something living, but she barely had any idea of what had happened to him, much less what the actual hell that lake had in it, and she might have been supposed to be keeping balance but that did not mean that she knew how to.

Bruce was the one who answered, voice calm and measured: “We know of someone who is— who might be dealing with corrupted ectoplasm as a human.”

Well. Shit.

Dylan took a deep breath and it was enough for everyone in the room to realize what exactly was going on in her head.

“You don't need to tell us anything,” Bruce assured, “just—... What would they—”

“Me,” Jason cut off, rolling his eyes, “what would I have to do?”

Oh, god.

Why does it always suck to be right?

“I’m really sorry, Jason.”

Jason, for a moment, looked like he wanted to laugh. “Right back at ya.”

Her friends had told her about Jason's death, but she hadn't really had a lot of time or energy to consider the implications of that. And investigating him now, after they'd agreed to put all their cards on the table, didn't seem like an option.

If she wanted to understand she'd have to ask him.

And she was not going to fucking ask him.

“Okay. Uh. You should stay near other ghosts until it goes away, the more the better. Not all ghosts would work, though..."

"But you do,” he chimed in, looking a lot more tense in spite of his purposefully relaxed position.

Which was understandable, considering the only way for him to know that was if he had felt something change being near Dylan and that meant that he'd probably known there was something wrong with her since minute one, which wasn't unheard of but still kind of sucked.

“...Yeah, I would.”

“Explains a lot.” Shit.

Based on the faces (and emotions, ugh,) around him, Jason was the only one who felt that way.

“For how long?”

“I— I mean, I don't really... Know?” That was a weak answer, and Dylan knew it wasn't enough. “I don’t think I’ve actually explained how rare these situations are. Liminality... Is not something very documented. But if I was enough, it probably shouldn't be too long? I mean... I'm not really qualified to be making these guesses.”

“Do you know someone who is?”

Finally something she could answer quickly. “Yes.”

“So if I go to see them, they’ll explain what to do?”

“I’m pretty sure they could, yeah.”

“And if your friend can't?”

“Then... I don't know, but—” Dylan took a moment to gather her thoughts. “We are doing this, right?”

“This being, shipping me off to a healing retreat in the ghost dimension?” Jason asked, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Dylan nodded. He nodded right back. “Yeah, sure. We’re doing that. I’m sick of this shit.”

Bruce’s face was somewhat somber when Dylan looked at him next. “How would this work?” He asked.

“Well, he can stay in my keep,—” She was not telling him it was a castle, thank you very much, “the place I own in the Zone, for as long as the process takes, and nobody would bother him. And—” Oh, boy, there’s no avoiding this, is there? “Something you should know about the way time works— um. Since time goes by at different ‘speeds’, those speeds relate to each other a bit... Uh, unreliably? Like, it changes depending on where in the Zone you are. So we might not be gone from Earth for long. But that’s not necessarily a problem solved because I genuinely have no clue how long...”

Dylan couldn’t help but slowly trail off, as all the obstacles in their path gave room to a new idea. There was no judgment in any of their faces when she finally met their eyes again.

She took a deep breath and tried getting to the point for once: “I think we should do a trial run, first, before making any decisions. The doctor I know should be able to answer your questions far better than I did. What do you think?”

Jason nodded, easily. “Sounds like a plan.”

Their gazes then went to Bruce, who to Dylan’s surprise had a frown on his face.

“Would it be safe for you two to go alone?”

“Yeah, nobody should bother us. We should be back pretty fast.”

“He’s asking because he wants to come,” explained Jason, amused.

Bruce didn’t deny it.

“Oh.” That was doable. But without the Specter Speeder... “I’d have to carry both of you—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted, calmly.

“You wanna go now?” Jason asked her, instead of addressing him, “There’s a limit to how much time I can spend here, you know.”

“Oh, sure!” Dylan nodded, ignoring the comment as it was clearly not meant for her. She turned to Bruce next, “We’ll be back before midnight, and we’ll let you know what we find, okay?”

“Be careful.”

“Always,” she promised.

Bruce was gonna learn that wasn’t exactly true soon, but for now, while the hope was alive, she could give him the peace of mind.

Chapter Text

Dylan sent Jason off to change with a warning (“we’re going to a place called the Far Frozen, and they live up to the name,”) and immediately excused herself to go upstairs, leaving behind Cass and Bruce and the turmoil of emotions in the room to (hopefully) sort themselves out.

Their combined feelings were like another presence in the room, physical and heavy, standing on top of her chest and screaming to be acknowledged. Dylan was trying really hard to ignore it, but it was starting to feel like the day she'd finally have it under control would never come.

There were four stops on her to do list: First, find d’Eon and get her to wait downstairs for the portal. Easier said than done, needless to say, which is why it got demoted to last place after a few moments of standing there with no clue of where to go.

Second, let her friends know what she was doing. (The fact that she didn't know what she was doing, notwithstanding.) Jazz had been in Dylan's room when she'd left to return her plate, and she'd probably figured out that she'd gotten distracted once she didn't come back for almost an hour. It was a fifty fifty of whether she'd still be waiting,— so Dylan wasn't surprised when her room was empty.

Sam and Tucker had let her know when they arrived at Vlad’s place, so she knew they'd be busy for another couple hours at the very least. (It was easy for Vlad’s obsession with Dylan to overshadow it, but Sam and Tucker had gotten their fair share of bullshit from him too,— and Dylan didn't doubt they'd take the opportunity for payback with slightly deranged excitement.)

She dug her phone from under her pillow and texted the Team Phantom group chat.

hey

quick uodate

im going w jason to see frostbite abt his wierdness n possible dead status

b back soon

At some point in history, the typos had been wholeheartedly accidental. (Don't text and fight, kids.) Now, after getting grilled relentlessly by her friends, it was a hill she was going to die on. Autocorrect was off and so were all bets, and Dylan took immense petty joy in staring at her typing mistakes as she sent them, knowing it'd earn at least a little bit of outrage.

While still in her room (and giggling to herself like a dumbass) she tackled her third goal: She let tangibility slide off from her arm and retrieved the thermos from beneath the floorboards.

She knew it as soon as her fingers wrapped around it.

She just knew.

The core that had been there, Plasmius, Vlad’s ghost half—

It was gone.

Forever.

Destabilized. Turned into goop. (Like Ellie almost had.)

Plasmius was dead.

He had Ended, under her floor, at some point during the previous day with none the wiser.

Dylan— Dylan suddenly couldn't breathe.

Oh, god.

...What had she done?

Fourth task was to extend some olive branches in the upper floors. She wasn't going anywhere, apparently, so that meant she had to build rapport.

Phantom ignored, stubbornness born out of desperation, the weight of the thermos hooked to her belt. It was lighter than it should be, because it was missing something it was supposed to have. It would be a problem, and soon, but right now she needed to focus.

So focus she did. It took her just seconds to float up to the fifth floor, invisible and intangible, and sooner than expected she found what she was looking for.

Catherine noticed her first, if the scoff was an indication of anything. 

—Oh, hello there,— smiled Joshua, polite as always.— Anything we can help with?

They were both reading, sitting across from one another on some ancient, dust-covered furniture.

—I was actually about to ask you the same thing,— Dylan tried to joke. The thermos was swaying too easily. She felt like puking. — I’m about to open a portal to the Realms. If anyone wanted to go, they could use it.

—It won’t be so easy to get rid of us, Phantom,— Catherine replied instantly, pulling her book to her face almost like a shield.

It was strange to see her sitting so stiff, especially when last time she'd had no problem getting all up in Dylan's face, but she'd transformed in her room and she was just now realizing that it was the first time they'd seen her like this.

Unless they'd seen her fight Plasmius, which was very likely and also a terrible first impression, and it would explain why Catherine was acting so weird. She was intimidated by her, and fuck, Dylan really, really wasn't able to process that right now, not with the thermos as light as it was and with the meaning of that heavy enough to suffocate her.

—I will return tonight. The invite included a portal back.

She’d barely even sounded annoyed. Or panicked. Way to go, Dyl.

—Pass,— the woman bit out.— Send my regards to your guest on her way out.

Ah. Dylan was starting to wonder when she'd mention it. It wasn't worth explaining the fact that d’Eon wasn't her guest, not with such little time and especially not with such little interest on her part, so Dylan just turned to look at the man.

Joshua sighed, but shrugged when their eyes met.

—I appreciate the offer, but there’s nothing for me over there.— Dylan nodded, calmly, before he went on:— Although Mina would probably accept, by the way. And maybe even Alan. They were in the south wing, last I saw them.

One final nod, this time with an appreciative smile, and Dylan was back on the move.

She didn't think about the thermos in her hip. She didn't think about it at all.

It took me less than a minute to find them, their ecto signatures glaringly obvious once I had a direction to focus my attention on.

—Hey guys,— I smiled, a pleasant buzz spreading in my chest at the sight of Mina's genuine joy to see me.

I even managed to sense some positive emotions from Alan, who was laying against the windowsill, looking out into the gardens.

—Dylan! Hi, sweetie!— The blonde shot up from her seat to greet me, and that's what finally drew my attention to what she'd been doing.

—Sorry to interrupt you,— I said, gesturing at the grand piano,— I didn't know you could play.

Mina blushed and looked away, bashfully.

—Ah, I still have a long way to go-... I can't always get the strength to press the keys,— she explained,— so a lot of it is just studying the music sheets.

—Looks like you could use a boost, then,— I smiled, irrationally excited for her. Ghosts so rarely had regular, non obsessive hobbies, let alone tried new things, that I felt I had an obligation to encourage this.— I'm opening a portal to the Realms in a few minutes, and I'll be coming back before midnight. Do you guys wanna come with?

Alan looked understandably surprised to see himself included, but never once seemed against the idea. Instead, he turned to look at Mina.

She, for her part, had her mouth hanging just barely open, the offer having taken her completely unprepared.

—It's not the last trip I'll make or anything, and if you ever need to I can open a portal for you, but I thought it was worth offering-...

—Yes,— answered Mina, even when the shock hadn't completely left her face yet,— yes, I'd love that. Are you coming, Al?

The man only floated forward. Mina took that as his response.

—Do you know anyone else who would want to come along?

—Have you asked Joshua?

—Yeah, but he wasn't really interested,— I replied.

—Then I doubt anyone else would,— she shrugged, a little like she was telling me a secret.

And I had already run out of acquaintances, so I'd have to take her word for it. Maybe by next time I'd be able to finish meeting the ghosts of the Manor and double check for myself, but right now I didn't have enough time.

It was a little impressive that I'd managed to keep ghost interactions to a minimum since coming here.

—Full disclosure, though,— I said, suddenly realizing that they had an ever longer streak of no human-ghost contact,— I'm going to the Zone so that I can take Jason to a doctor.

—Oh finally,— Mina sighed, and I couldn't help but laugh. The frustration in her voice had been unexpected, but I could hear the obvious relief.— That poor boy is long overdue for a check-up!— It was sweet of her to care so much, I thought to myself. Her voice had taken a parental tone, making her seem older than she had until now.— But I know that's not why you're warning us. We'll be fine.

Alan made a sound that I could only describe as a whine, and Mina immediately corrected:

—I will be fine. Alan would prefer to stay invisible until we cross over, if that's doable.

I nodded right away.— No problem, you got it. Do you mind if I mention that you're also coming with us? I don't want to freak Jason out too much by having you appear out of nowhere when we cross over.

He nodded firmly, but I didn't miss the way he was staying strictly behind Mina.

Huh. You wouldn't guess she'd be the one doing the protecting in their relationship.

The return to the cave was silent and quick, and soon I found myself popping back into sight next to Jason, with Mina not far behind me.

“You ready?”

"Fuck!" Nearly choked Jason, instinctively reaching for his (currently empty) thigh. "Kid, don't do that!"

"Sorry!" I replied, heat building up in my face as I realized even Bruce looked spooked. "I forgot you can't sense me," I explained.

I'd startled Batman.

That was... Not a thing I thought I could do. That anyone could do.

(What would happen once he realized how much I can do? Will it be enough to change his mind? To make him afraid of me, like all humans seem to be?)

"It's alright," said Bruce, and I decided that, for now, I was gonna accept that as truth. At least until I ran out of things to worry about.

—You know, I was starting to think nothing could scare him,— Mina told me, casually, helping me ignore the way their eyes were lingering on my new ghostly attributes.

"Who's your friend?" Batman asked, calmly.

"Uh, everyone, this is Mina, Mina this is everyone," I quickly introduced, just coincidentally not meeting anyone's eyes, "she and her friend Alan will be coming with us."

"And where is he?" Asked Jason, with a genuine curiosity that felt out of place in his stern look.

"He’s here, but he can't become visible like Mina," ...because he doesn't want to, I finished only for myself.

"It's nice to officially meet you, Mina," Bruce said, still acting as if this was normal, and extending his hand in greeting.

—Oh, ain't he nice?— she smiled, returning the gesture, and putting visible focus into making at least her palm tangible.— Can you tell him I'm very happy to be able to introduce myself?

I repeated her message word for word and found that this was what it took to make Bruce frown.

"Can she not speak English?"

I turned to her, searching for her answer and happy to fall into an interpreter role.

She looked at him like he was crazy, a little laugh escaping her.

—Of course I can speak English,— she replied towards him, but giving me enough time to repeat after her,— but I've been a ghost for a really long time. It's human I can't speak.

Bruce nodded, calmly. "I see. So in case of an emergency, you could write down a message to us?"

—If I can pick up a pen,— she grinned, a little sassy.

"If she can pick up a pen," I translated, tension still entrenched in my chest.

"As much as I'm loving the meet and greet," interrupted Jason, "can we get goin´ already? I'm starting to melt in here.”

“Of course.” I had barely noticed the different outfit, and it was at this point that I stopped to actually pay attention. Jason was wearing a different jacket and pants, with a visibly thicker fabric and some hints of fur on the inside, and notoriously less weapons strapped to his body.

“I’m guessing not a lot of my stuff would work on ghosts anyways, so I’m not putting all that back on,” he said, noticing my gaze, “I left it in my old locker. I’ll pick it up on my way out.”

It took a moment to click that the last part was for Bruce and not me.

“Of course, Jay. That locker is still yours.”

—Why is he wearing all that?— Mina whispered in my ear, trying not to drag too much attention.

—I’m taking him to the Far Frozen.

—Ain’t that a long way to go for a checkup?— Mina asked, confusion gentle in her face.

—Yeah, but the only doctors I know are from there,— I explained, earning a soft hum and a nod. They were also, coincidentally, the only ones I trusted with what I was (not) carrying in my belt.— You guys are free to go wherever you want, of course. I’ll call for you before we come back.

Because Plasmius was dead.

The crown— whatever had guided me to do it, had lied.

I never wanted to kill him,— not really, not like that. I was desperate for a solution but not one that included murder.

And I’d thought... I thought that maybe it knew something I didn't, and that somehow Vlad would be fine. Eventually.

But no. Plasmius was dead. 

And if what Frostbite had told me about my ghost half also applied to him, Vlad would be joining soon.

"Let's go, then," I smiled.

The portal had been a whole different story. It looked a lot like the Lazarus pools, apparently, and it had set Bruce and Jason into a near panic.

Not Cass, unsurprisingly, but she had felt worry for a single instant before she saw something that made her decide it was probably fine.

Dylan spent a few moments explaining that it was perfectly safe, which Mina was happy to demonstrate before going her merry way, and then held Jason's hand as he stepped through. (It wasn't necessary just yet, but it looked like he could use it.)

(Honestly, so could she.)

There was a small island waiting for them on the other side, and Jason was glad to have a place to lose his mind.

Because holy shit.

Everything was green.

Everything was green.

And there was all sorts of shit floating in the sky and oh, wait, they were floating too. Why wouldn't they be.

“Is that a door?” He asked, bewilderment putting that question above all of the many others he wanted to ask.

“Uh? Yeah,” Dylan/Phantom smiled, glowing alongside the world around her. “Remember those lairs I mentioned? The doors lead to them.”

Jason looked down at himself, just out of curiosity. His boots, opaque against the softly glowing, purple grass beneath them, looked like they didn't belong there. It'd been the same when Phantom/Dylan had appeared in the cave, her glow a stark contrast to the background of the world around her.

“Ready?” She asked, tilting her head in hopes of making eye contact.

“Yeah,” Jason lied. “Let’s go.”

Batman couldn’t bring himself to leave for patrol, so what Bruce did instead was update his files with all the information he’d been given tonight.

There were a lot of mistakes to correct.

His daughter was dead but she was still here. The reminders didn’t seem to help as much as they should. She was here, safe, with him. Safe for now, since he couldn’t protect her yet. But she could protect herself, clearly, even if she didn’t seem convinced of it.

Dylan was powerful. Even with the little knowledge he had of her powers he could see that. It felt like they’d been talking for ages, yet her file remained pointedly lacking in terms of skill set. He’d ask, just... Not now. Besides, looking at the incomplete notes that held the title Plasmius had called her, and the fact that she hadn’t denied it to be true when he’d asked... There were bigger priorities.

Watching an island move through the sky like a cloud was probably enough to make a lot of people freak out. Jason was holding it together impressively well, if you asked Dylan.

They'd gone past a few other doors and haunts, some that she recognized and most that she didn't, and while she did her best to keep the conversation alive, after a while they ended up just floating in silence.

“Is that the jail you mentioned?”

When she turned to where Jason was pointing, Walker's prison stared back at her, gloomy and threatening as always.

“Yeah, that's Walker's lair. We should probably hurry. I don't feel like beating his ass today.”

Jason raised his eyebrows, a small chuckle escaping him.

“You sound confident,” he noted, amused but not doubting her. (It felt kind of odd, saying something and people just believing it. Dylan was trying really hard to get used to it.)

A grimace flashed through her face, something Jason couldn't help but take note of. She didn't look regretful, or like she'd been caught in a lie, so it wasn't that she couldn't actually handle this Walker guy.

It had to be something else.

But what?

“Why does he fight you, anyway?”

The direction seemed to help, as Dylan's face lost some tension.

“Something that belonged to my dad accidentally ended up in the Zone, and when I went to get it I ran across him. Having items from the living world is illegal, according to him, so he had me arrested. I started a riot and broke out. Turns out he can hold a grudge.”

Jason... Jason wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He thinks he might have done both. (Mostly laugh, though.)

It wasn't news that she could hold her own, but still. Damn.

“Do I count as an item from the living world?” He asked then, the thought appearing uninvited. If she was in a rush to leave, she probably had good reason to.

“No, but he'd write a new law if he saw you. So I'd rather not risk it.”

“And he can just do that?” Jason asked, a little harsher than he would've liked.

Maybe he should read the Fentons’ papers.

“Inside his lair, yeah. That's never stopped him from overreaching before, but what can you do.”

The girl sounded way too defeated for someone who’d just said she'd win that fight. Jason couldn't help but make a note of that too. (His comm had stopped working as soon as he'd gotten there, so if he didn't, no one would.)

A frigid breeze went past them, making Jason shiver and Dylan sigh. She looked almost relieved.

“We're almost there,” she said, and Jason could only wonder what had made her look so at home in that place.

Chapter Text

So.

Yetis.

Dylan had not mentioned the yetis. Jason was pretty fucking sure about that, no matter how clueless Dylan had looked when he'd asked. He would remember if there’d been any mention of yetis whatsoever.

He didn’t get to verbalize that sentiment, though, before Dylan was getting welcomed and dragged off into an igloo city, with Jason in tow, by the guards— the yeti guards— that found them as soon as they touched ground.

Another thing she hadn’t thought warranted a heads-up: They all knew her. Without fail, not one person went by without greeting her, waving or recognizing her in one way or another. It wasn’t a memory he’d expected to resurface today, but Jason couldn’t help but be brought back to the first gala he went to with Bruce, with the way people looked at him in confusion and asked to be introduced, interested in hearing what his relationship to his companion was. It was undoubtedly better, needless to say, because the yetis seemed genuinely happy to have him there, unexpected visit and all, but it was obvious that the main source of interest wasn't him.

Dylan was polite, almost indulgently so, but she never actually stopped to chat. Jason followed after her as she followed the guards, who marched ahead leading them towards Frostbite,— the guy Dylan had asked to see.

It had quickly become apparent that they all had on-theme names, so he got over how strange of a name that was. Frostbite was easily overlooked among Tundra, Blizzard, Polaria, or Artic.

Typing that report— something Jason knew he wouldn’t be getting out of, regardless of the fact he didn’t answer to Batman anymore and didn’t owe him squat,— was going to be a fucking nightmare. It was trained instinct alone that soon had him thinking of what else he’d have to say about the yetis. For starters: They were all fucking huge. The shortest one he’d come across was about a head taller than him,— and Jason was tall, okay? Yetis were built different. And so was the city around them, too. The buildings were made out of white bricks (which Jason could bet was compressed snow,) and rock, and aside from being as big as you'd expect and looking fairly rustic, there wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary about them.

By the time they finally reached their destination, Jason was considering what the Replacement would do if he was standing in that place. (He was already hung up about his height as it was. Imagine in a city where he’s basically child-sized?)

Dylan got his attention by introducing him to Frostbite, a behemoth of a man with more scars than Bruce and an ice arm, because of fucking course, who would be running tests on Jason to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

Because, obviously, that's what they were there to do. That was the only reason they'd come here. To have someone poke at everything that was wrong inside of Jason and tell him how to fix it.

Tell him if it could be fixed.

It might've been a little late for him to be realizing this, but still: Jason was going to hate this, and the Green was going to make it everybody else's problem.

It was probably a good thing that all the people there were already dead.

The yetis, to Dylan’s relief, had been surprisingly tame with their welcome. Probably because she’d been there just days ago, now that she thought about it. She’d been worried Jason would get overwhelmed, but it seemed like the man was just taking in his surroundings with that absolute focus she’d seen in all of the bats at one point or another.

But something happened once they reached Frostbite. Dylan didn’t know what. She didn’t know why,— although she could imagine. She wasn’t sure how to ask him, either. But in the end none of her shortcomings mattered, because it was Frostbite who took the reins.

“I understand, from what the Great One tells me, that our facilities are vastly different to those of Earth.” Dylan tried to suppress the grimace. Her other concern, aside from Jason freaking out? Jason finding out about the king thing. Which he would, she knew, and sooner rather than later,— but damn. She was hoping to get some time to prepare him. Which she wouldn't if they kept it up with the title and let's be real: They were going to keep it up with the title. If Jason asked why they called her great one she’d have to tell him about the prophecy, and if he asked about that... “Since Phantom herself is due for a checkup as well, perhaps we could use this as an opportunity to clear any doubts.”

Wait, shit. Dylan hadn’t even thought of that. With how little she’d gone to actual doctors in her life, when Frostbite offered a quick checkup, she hadn’t really questioned the peculiarities of their healthcare too much.

And the information they were compiling about her had proven, time and time again, to be incredibly useful to her, and incredibly valuable to the yetis: So even when she started to feel guilty about it, she could remind herself that they were getting something out of it too.

But, obviously, Jason didn’t know any of that.

Obviously. 

“Sounds good,” Jason replied, voice barely strained.

His eyes trailed around, but he wouldn't find any clue in the office about the sort of tech they used. For how advanced they were, the Far Frozen itself was deceptively rustic.

Dylan... Should probably mention that, shouldn’t she.

So as Frostbite led them down to the clinic, Dylan did her very best to sound casual and started to talk.

“Frostbite is the Chief, but he also helps run this place. Think hospital meets lab meets government offices.” She recognized, subconsciously, the path they were taking. There was rarely anyone this way. “They’re one of the most technologically advanced societies of the Realms, even if they don't look it.”

Frostbite chuckled, the sound reverberating around them. The acoustics of this place were nuts. Dylan kinda wished she knew how to sing just to test how that would sound like.

“While that may be true,” the yeti conceded, “most of our developments are in the field of medicine and thanatology-... Or ‘ectology’, as the late doctors Fenton called it.” Frostbite looked at her, but she pretended not to notice, and he allowed her to believe it'd worked. “Our daily routines are rarely affected by the progress of our scientists.”

Jason nodded along, slowly. The group stopped in front of an elevator, and Dylan was hit with yet another realization as the metal doors opened. She waited until Jason had taken a step to get inside herself, standing to the side so he could look out the massive windows, and then sent an encouraging look to the yeti. Just as she'd hoped, Frostbite understood the assignment.

“Our ancestors chose this location for their settlement because of the intricate cave system below it,” he explained, sounding like an excited tour guide. But Dylan could understand the feeling, honestly. It was actually pretty cool. The tallest building she’d seen here was three stories tall. The lowest, though? Completely different story. It wasn’t super common on the residential houses, but almost all the other buildings sported some truly impressive basements.

Not like Jason didn't know a thing or two about crazy basements.

The window of the elevator faced an opening that connected all the half-floors of the building, designed to follow the natural shape of the cave it was built on.

“The most important of our structures are connected to each other this way. While highly time efficient, it has its downsides. It can take years for people to learn to navigate them.”

“He’s talking about me, by the way,” she butted in, “he’s had to send people to find me every single time I’ve been in there.”

Dylan had gotten lost so often in the tunnel system that after the fourth time, she had started to fly out intangibly to save herself the embarrassment.

Jason kept on nodding. Dylan was starting to get worried until he turned away from the window, with a vaguely impressed look in his eyes.

“So you build your basic necessities up top, and then go to town underground,” he summarized, and there was almost no trace of tension left as he awaited confirmation.

But Frostbite tilted his head in confusion, so the ease didn't exactly last.

“The cave system has uses beyond transportation—...”

“It's an expression,” Dylan interrupted, knowing exactly what the source of the confusion was, “go to town means doing something with enthusiasm or really in depth. Since you put all the exciting stuff in the caves...”

“Ah! Of course,” Frostbite nodded, “an accurate read of our village’s organization, young Jason.”

Dylan kinda stammered, but it went luckily unnoticed thanks to the elevator coming to a halt.

“I'm not that young, you know,” Jason said, almost awkwardly, after a few moments of processing what he'd just heard.

“Not on a human scale, certainly,” Frostbite agreed, exiting the elevator and starting to walk again. “But by ghost standards, your existence has been very brief.” Jason looked like he wanted to say something, but Frostbite didn't give him a chance. “You have lived enough to reach human maturity, and yet that is only a fraction of what your experiences will amount to in the End. Most of your golden days are ahead of you still.”

Jason didn't respond. Dylan couldn't blame him.

She took Frostbite’s advice for a reason, after all.

Chapter Text

Tucker was—not that he'd ever admit it—kinda glad that Vlad was nowhere to be found.

Don't get him wrong, he'd been fully on board with a little payback, but the homicidal gleam in Sam’s eyes was starting to make him uneasy. Dylan was the only one he knew that had ever managed to calm Sam down when she got like that, and with his ace so far off his sleeve Tucker didn't like his chances.

But the mansion was empty, and so were the woods all around it. (Sam had checked. Extensively.) Vlad wasn't here. So Tucker focused on doing what he did best, in spite of the very impatient spirit trying to convince him otherwise.

—He couldn't have gone far,— Sam said, for the tenth time that day.

All the vines around her arms had grown thorns the size of sewing needles. Tucker was kind of impressed.

—I just need to wrap up here,— he replied.

The lab was untouched when they'd gotten there. Vlad had likely not set foot there after the fight. 

Tucker had somewhat expected everything to still be working as usual, but that hadn't been the case. Not that he'd actually ever had a lot to support that hypothesis to begin with. They’d never been super sure on how Plasmius’ ecto-firewalls worked, so, consequently, Tucker wasn't exactly sure what had happened to them. They were still powered on—finding the ecto-battery hadn't been hard,—but they weren't really doing much of anything. Kind of like a closed padlock laying on the floor: It's certainly closed, and opening it could be a challenge, but it's not really locking anything up. It won't keep you from anything.

A part of Tucker, the part that made him who he was, wanted nothing more than to poke around and figure out how Vlad had managed it.

He wouldn't, but still. Just because he was able to focus on what mattered didn't mean he wasn't curious.

(Cause if it wasn't working anymore, that meant it was something that Vlad's ghost half did, and that wouldn't be so weird if it wasn't for the fact that Plasmius’ didn't have a core that could do something like that, so theoretically he'd found a way that would work for any ghost, and that was pretty freaking fascinating, if you asked him.)

—Are you done yet?

—Almost.

Vlad made routine backups of his files, so there hadn't been much on his computers that wasn't already on a hard drive. With everything pocketed it'd come down to the secret identity thing. Search and destroy, and leave no shred of evidence behind. His bread and butter. Tucker could’ve done that in his sleep.

Vlad didn't have much yet, to his relief. At least nothing solid.

The ‘destroy’ part was always the most satisfying.

Sam looked like she agreed, twitching as she waited for the all clear to tear the place to shreds.

Once there was nothing of value to recover from the soon-to-be-rubble, Tucker turned to his friend with a grin.

—Now I'm done.

Sam took a second to respond in kind to the gesture, and only a fraction of the next one for vines to burst out from the ground and walls around them, tearing through everything in their path like a fist through wet paper.

Yeah, the ‘destroy’ part was definitely his favorite.

Well, the kid wasn't kidding when she said technologically advanced.

Jason was— Coping. He was fine.

Honestly, he’d probably be a lot worse off if it wasn't for the fact that his guide had cheerily hopped her way over to the bed and allowed the yeti to do what he had to, pulsing out waves of safe-calm-helping that were intense enough to make him almost miss some of the explanations.

In spite of how unsettling some of the equipment looked, Dylan remained completely unfazed through every step of the routine.

It was kinda fucked up to think that she looked far more comfortable here, in the literal land of the dead, than she'd ever had on Earth. He hadn’t known her very long, but from the start Dylan had seemed, in a way, familiar with the feeling of not belonging. It didn't unsettle her to be reminded that she was a newcomer, that her place there wasn't carved out yet. When Jason had met her, he'd met a girl who only knew how to be an outsider.

And the more he learned about her, the more that fact had made sense.

Except that now that girl was gone. In her place was a ghost,— a ghost who kicked her feet as she answered questions about herself and her nature, with no trace of the fear, of the sheer fucking terror, that had plagued her answers when they were the ones to ask.

A ghost. And not just any ghost. Phantom.

The Phantom, because clearly that name had a weight in here that he could see but not understand. Here it meant something. Dylan was someone, and while she was someone back home, here she was someone that people knew. Phantom, the “ Great One”.

Jason wouldn't ask, and he would get chewed out for it. But she'd flinched so badly at the mention that Jason hadn't even considered the option. She'd told them enough for one day, as far as he was concerned.

The Dracula wannabe that jumped the Demon Brat had called her your Majesty, apparently, and Jason was willing to bet this was probably related. But if Bruce, of all fucking people, was managing to put that shit aside for the time being, Jason was sure as fuck not gonna be the one who brought it up.

He was a lot of things, but more paranoid than Batman?

Not that long the mere suggestion would’ve gotten you shot.

The check-up felt both longer and shorter than usual, but Dylan dismissed it as a result of the circumstances. They'd gone through all the steps she'd anticipated, not missing or adding anything, so her only theory was that having an audience changed things, especially one as rapt as hers.

A few scans, some measuring (namely of the recent additions, ears and claws and fangs, all far sharper and longer than they'd been the last time), an eye and hearing check, listening to her core's sounds...

Jason had gasped at that one. Dylan just smiled and reassured it was normal-healthy-fine, until the man looked like he'd calmed down again.

Then it was his turn.

And Jason, for all his apprehension, valued his privacy. Dylan promised to stay close and let them talk in peace.

She found a waiting room nearby and sat, dwarfed by what was meant to be a reasonably sized chair. There wasn’t anybody else around, just her and the thermos and the lack of its contents.

Dylan figured that if she was gonna be sick, at the very least she’d do it in a hospital.

She’d either fallen asleep or she’d passed out,— and Dylan wasn’t really sure which option was worse,— because she had to be shaken awake by one of the nurses. She recognized him, belatedly, as Alpian, a guy she’d met in passing several times before.

“Apologies, Great One,” the yeti said, gentle, “but the Chief asked me to find you. Your brother has requested your presence.”

Okay,— that was likely bad. Hopefully not, but likely.

“Yeah, no worries. Thanks.” It was perfectly possible that they were done and ready to go, but something inside her told Dylan that wasn’t the case. She’d taken five steps before she received her confirmation: Outside the door, two other yetis awaited, anxiety clear even at a distance.

Well shit.

She said hello as they let her pass, and she walked in to find Jason by the door, waiting for her.

“How’d it go?” She asked, acting as if she couldn’t already tell from his face.

Jason didn’t answer, instead turning to Frostbite. With the brand new chart in hand, the yeti replied:

“Aside from a few surprises, your brother seems to have a healthy constitution. His formation occurred naturally, in spite of the unfavorable circumstances.”

“Wait, really?” She asked, barely perking up, “That’s good, right?” So why was Jason looking like he’d sucked a lemon?

“It is. But there are some aspects that require further analysis.”

Oh. Ohhhhh.

“The tube?”

“The tube.”

“Why is there a tube,” Jason complained, more bewildered than annoyed, “and why do you know about the tube?”

Fair question. “I’ve been in the tube,” she replied, nonchalant. If she kept her cool well enough, maybe she could hold on to it for both of them. “It gives a clearer image than these scanners.”

“Why?” He asked, and Dylan almost told him she didn’t really know how the things worked before she realized what he meant.

“There’s a lot of weird stuff going on with me too, you know,” she shrugged, hoping to get at least an eye roll. (She failed.) “I can go first again. It’s really no bother.”

But Jason shook his head, his refusal as unexpected as it was determined.

“No, it’s fine. No need to have you model the thing for me.” His eyes went to the ceiling for a moment, and either a prayer or a curse flashed through his head before he went on, “If you say it’s fine, it’s fine. I believe you.”

“Excellent,” the yeti smiled, pleased, as Dylan felt a strange sort of pride appear in her core. “Shall we go, then?”

Dylan's unease continued to grow with each passing second, a nauseous weight sprouting roots in her stomach every time the thermos hit her hip.

She needed to know.

Now.

She turned to Jason, who was just in the middle of taking off his shirt. She ignored the Y-shaped scar with ease. There were other things in her mind.

“Listen, I need to talk to Frostbite about something,” Dylan explained. The privately went unsaid, so she was grateful when she noticed the understanding on his face. “Think you’ll be okay to go through this on your own?”

Jason waved her off, in a dismissive gesture that didn’t fool her. “I’ll be fine, go do your thing.”

Dylan did not move an inch from her spot.

“I think I’ll wait until after they’re done here, actually.”

Jason had to fight the urge to facepalm, 'cause, right,— she felt his emotions now.

Well.

Fuck him.

“Dylan, it’s cool. You can go.”

“I’ll stay with him.”

Both of them turned to see Jazz, standing by the door in a knee-length parka.

“What are you doing here?”

Jazz waved her phone up like it was obvious. Jason couldn't really read what it said, but the chat interface was obvious.

“You think I was going to let you do this alone?”

Dylan sighed, a soft amazement in her eyes. Jason thought it’d be nice to be on the receiving end of a look like that, and an ugly kind of sorrow appeared when he realized he’d burnt his bridges with his younger brothers a little too much for something like it to ever feel genuine.

“Thanks, Jazz,” she nodded, and then turned back to him, inquisitive. After a small shrug of his shoulders, Dylan formally introduced them, even if it was borderline useless by now: “Jason, this is my dead sister Jazz; Jazz, this is my kind of dead brother Jason. I’ll be back in a sec. Play nice.”

And with that she was out the door.

“Great One, is everything alright?”

Frostbite looked just as concerned as he felt. And it was kinda dumb, since it's not like I'd ever doubted him or his honesty, but knowing, as a fact, that he was being genuine with me, kinda hit me like a brick to the face.

He looked up at me from his desk with such an open expression that I just—.  I just wanted to cry. A little bit. Ancients, I was so fucking pathetic. And grateful to have him on my side.

Hopefully that wouldn't change when he heard what I had to say.

“Yeah, but I need to ask you something,” I replied. “You’re the only person I know who could know anything about this.”

Frostbite relaxed on his seat again, and kindly motioned his guard to give us privacy. When we were alone, he offered me a seat in front of him.

“What troubles you?”

What didn't.

“Plasmius came to my house.” When I spoke, it almost felt like I was just telling a story. Like this had happened to someone else. “He threatened my— my family, and I—... I did something... I’m not proud of it. And I'm not even sure I fully understand it.”

Solemnity seemed to wash over Frostbite, who nodded seriously and waited for my explanation.

I couldn't bring myself to disappoint.

“I could... Feel the crown with me when we fought. And I knew he would never stop trying to hurt others, so it suggested that I—... That I remove his core.”

“And you crushed it,” he guessed, far too calmly.

“No!” I jerked back, horrified, “I would never! But I—” I really wasn't much better. “I ripped it out of his body and shoved it in a thermos, and— when I went to check I saw he had destabilized, and— I mean, we had theorized that removing my ghost half would kill me, and Vlad looked okay but I’m afraid he’s slowly dying or something, and I— I don’t know what to do.”

“This is what you weren’t proud of?” Frostbite asked, and only then did I hear the sheer confusion he was feeling.

I nodded, slowly.

“King Phantom, core removal was a common punishment back in the Early days,” he told me, calmly, and I felt like I’d just been shot with a tranquilizer dart.

Core removal?

What the hell?

He got up and went to a built-in library that covered the entire left wall of the room. After a bit of searching, he pulled out a leather bound book and started flipping through it.

“You said you used the thermos on him and he destabilized?” I nodded. “That would imply that Plasmius’ ghost half manifested around the core, yes?” He asked, patiently, and sounding just the tiniest bit amused at the terminology I used.

When I nodded this time, I felt slightly less dumbstruck.

“Generally that does not happen,” he explained, finally finding whatever he’d been looking for and handing the book to me. It was a drawn guide. The process looked extremely familiar. “I’d assume it has something to do with him being liminal.”

There was a warning on top of the page that I had a little trouble reading: This procedure can only be done by the King or another ghost in direct communication with the High Core, otherwise it will result in the ghost’s ceasing.

Wait, what!?

“I’m very confused.”

“I can see that,” Frostbite nodded, as respectfully as he possibly could. “If it felt like the crown suggested it, I would assume it was the Core’s will manifesting through your link.”

“Wow, okay, but— how? Shouldn’t it have killed him? Why is it alright if the king does it?”

Frostbite pointed at the book. “When a ghost removes another’s core, it generally means the collapse of their internal structure. When someone in contact with the High Core, such as yourself, does the same thing, without the intent to cease them, the High Core simply refills them with enough ectoplasm for them to keep going.”

“So Vlad’s still a half ghost?”

“Of course. It’s not something so easily undone, Great One.”

“Then— what’s the point?” I asked, completely lost. “If they’re just put back together by the Zone, where does the punishment lie?”

“A core is the source of power of every being that has them,” he replied, patiently. “Plasmius won’t have access to his most advanced powers, maybe not even his basic ones, until he grows another one. It might take him years.”

“Wait— What!?” The confusion that appeared in his eyes lasted only until I repeated his words, completely in shock: “He’ll grow another one??”

“Well, yes,” Frostbite replied, “eventually. Just like every other ghost. Just like your brother, back there. It’s a natural process of every ghost’s eternity.”

I felt like my head had been put through a salad spinner. 

“So... This is basically a time out?”

Saying that outloud felt ridiculous. I felt ridiculous! What the fuck!

Frostbite had to suppress a laugh. “I believe that is an accurate way of describing it, yes. This was a punishment meant for those that abused their abilities and proved hard to contain, yet were not deemed impossible to redeem."

“So, if somebody was too bad for normal jail but not bad enough for a death sentence—...” They got hit with the magic tranq dart.  

“Exactly,” he nodded, satisfied. “During the last reigns it fell into disuse, since as you know, your predecessors took a liking to other, more severe, punishments. It is a relief to know it is being reinstituted.”

Holy shit.

Hooooly shit, my legs felt like putty.

The relief I felt made no sense to me.

I hadn’t been worried.

I mean, I had, but not about having killed him. Why would I care what happened to him? Why did I feel like the world had been lifted from my shoulders?

...Had I really felt this guilty over the possibility of having killed Vlad? No way, right? I mean, it’s Vlad! Parent-killer, clone-making, generally awful piece-of-shit Vlad.  

Why had I been so afraid of what would happen to him?

“Wait, hold on— do you—?” I shook my head and refocused on the task at hand. Head in the game, Fenton! “Does that mean that you’re aware of the core bindings?”

Frostbite’s ease vanished from his face.

“I am, your Majesty.”

Your Majesty?

Uh oh.

Did he think I wanted to-?

“I want to find a way to undo them,” I explained, ignoring the tiny sting in the pit of my stomach. “Do you have any information about it that I could use?”

His face, to my confusion, did not change. So he hadn’t assumed I wanted to try it.

But then why..?

He nodded, sighing slowly. His eyes felt heavy on me.

“Countless moons ago, I assigned a group of researchers to find a safe way to undo them,” he told me, “but they did not find any tangible answers before they were disbanded. I’m sure if I summoned them again they’d have some answers for you, Great One.”

Incredible how, as much as that title made me uncomfortable, it felt more natural than having him use Your Majesty.

"Wait, why were they disbanded?" I asked, not prepared at all for the grief that flooded his eyes.

Frostbite took a deep breath. I had never seen him breathe before.

"I often forget how young you are, Great One," he mused, softly. "If you'll follow me, there's something I'd like to show you."

Dylan had gotten very familiar with the Far Frozen after her return from the Cracks.

Nobody had dared ask her much about what she'd seen there, or what had pushed her to go, or what had happened in Amity,— and so, most of the conversations she had ended up with her learning something new about the tribe, its members, and its history.

Dylan had thought she knew everything she needed to know.

Dylan had thought very, very wrong.

As she looked up at the portrait she couldn't fend off the guilt. She'd thought she knew Frostbite,— and she did!— but though she knew a lot about him, there were still many things that she didn't.

And, if Dylan was being honest with herself, the fact that she'd never wondered about it kinda made her a bad friend.

The clues had been there. She just hadn't seen them.

Not much of a detective's daughter, was she?

Frostbite always knew what to say, always had the exact, perfect words to comfort her, and was always able to help her find the answers she needed.

It was only logical that he'd had practice, really.

Dylan stared up at the portrait,— the closest thing to luxury she'd seen here, big and stunning and royal,— and looked at the face of Frostbite's child.

"Her name was Neve," he told her, after a moment of respectful silence.

The painting depicted Frostbite and a smaller yeti, clearly younger but not any less imposing. She seemed to have almost more scars than her father, and though there was a fierceness in her eyes, she was leaning against Frostbite's side like she fit there perfectly.

Dylan guessed that she did, in a way.

Next to the family portrait were the most important events in Neve's eternity. Her beginning, her training, her skill against her opponents. Her rise through the ranks in the Far Frozen army, back when they'd had one. Her unwavering courage in the face of evil.

Her, leading a battalion against the Ghost King. Their defeat.

Her core binding.

Her ceasing.

Forever in our hearts and memories: Neve, Heir of the Far Frozen, Lieutenant General of the Hailstone Army.

"Frostbite, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"This was well before your time, Phantom. There's no need to apologize."

God, but that wasn't true, was it?

The Ghost King had killed his daughter. Dylan was the Ghost King now. Didn't she have a responsibility, regardless?

"Frostbite," she started, turning to face him and doing her damned hardest to sound royal and official and genuine, "as King of the Neverending Realms, I offer you my most sincere apologies for what my predecessor did to your family and if there is anything—"

"Dylan," he tried.

"—If there is anything, anything at all, that I can do to make it better please know I won't hesitate to do it."

"I..." Frostbite took a moment to steady himself. She couldn't tell what was going through his mind, and not for the first time she wished her instincts hadn't failed her. "I accept your apology, and appreciate the offer, but—..."

"Will you at least keep it in mind?" Dylan asked, hopefully. "If you ever need anything?"

Frostbite sighed. "I do not blame you for what happened, Phantom."

"And I'm very glad you don't, but that doesn't make it no longer my responsibility. I'm not just Phantom anymore. I knew the crown came with strings attached. I just wis—..." Dylan stopped that sentence out of habit. "I wasn't prepared... For the level of cruelty that Pariah reached, but that is far from discouraging to me."

"Very well," the yeti nodded, still looking unconvinced. "I will keep your offer in mind."

Dylan nodded.

He'd accepted, and it seemed like it was all she could achieve right now. She couldn't bring his daughter back, after all, and anything less than that was too little, and way too fucking late.

Dylan knew this. She understood it as a fact.

But that didn't mean she had to be fine with it. Not when it wasn't anywhere near enough.

"I will find a way to undo the core bindings," she swore, looking into the eyes of the man who had helped her so many times already and asked for nothing in return, "I will free every ghost affected by them and I will ensure it never happens again. I give you my word, I will not rest until I make this right."

Frostbite stared at Dylan for a few seconds, his eyes glazed over, and smiled weakly as his gaze trailed back to the portrait. And then proceeded to say something that Dylan did not have an answer for.

"You two would have been great friends."

Chapter Text

The air was warm and the conversation quiet when I opened the door to the room. My interruption earned me the attention of two sets of eyes, and in spite of my best efforts, concern appeared in both of them.

"You okay, kid?" Jason asked, keeping most of his worry out of his voice.

Jazz took a second to get to my side, both hands reassuringly on my shoulders, and I barely had time to think I should’ve probably stopped by a mirror before getting here.

I hadn't realized I looked so shaken up.

Not like I didn't have a reason, but still.

"All good. Promise,” I tried to reassure. “Are you finished with the tests?"

"Awaiting results as we speak," Jason replied, taking my dismissal in stride.

Jazz, unsurprisingly, didn't look convinced, but blissfully let it go this time. I would tell her, once we were back home, about what I'd learned— but right now, my focus had to be somewhere else. I couldn't afford to spend my time here spiralling, and I think she knew that just as well as I did. And while she didn't insist, she did gently drag me to the bed until I was sitting next to Jason, who seemed uncannily aware of what was coming.

"So, uh..." There was no easy way to say this, was there? I looked at Jason and hoped he could tell how bad I wanted to not have to tell him this. "Frostbite believes you might grow a core..? Eventually?"

"What."

Yeah, not my greatest delivery. Jazz reached a hand towards his shoulder, almost in offer, but she must've seen something in his face because she quickly dropped it.

I really would have liked to drop this, too.

"I don't know if he meant while you were alive, though. But like. Still. Something to keep in mind."

Jason nodded, eyebrows high on his face. It would have been funny if I hadn't been able to see the tension holding every single of his muscles locked in place.

"So I'm definitely becoming a ghost when I, y’know... Die, again?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

The reminder that he had already been dead should have helped. It didn't.

Talking about death with dead people was always easier, but with the living—...

“And... I am going to die again?”

Something about that question made my heart break a bit. That doubt resonated with a fear deep within me, like an echo returning from the darkest corners of my soul.

“You're alive, Jason,” I told him, with total certainty. The same words I had wanted to hear all throughout freshman year. The same words I'd repeated to myself over and over again, turning denial into a lifeline. “You came back. And like everything that lives, one day you'll stop.”

"I'll stop, and then I'll become a ghost. Okay." Jason swallowed, wiped his hands on the leg of his pants, and nodded again. He looked back up with a shaky grin. "At least I get a heads-up, right?"

"I—" It was a very optimistic approach, and that's why I worried it wasn't sincere. But at the end of the day, he wasn't wrong: most people have no idea what comes after— that's what makes them afraid. The knowledge that there will be something waiting for him couldn't be a small reassurance. "Yeah, I guess not many people do."

Jason, to his credit and my growing amazement, finished shaking off the revelation in record time.

"Besides, it doesn't sound like there's little to do around here," he went on, turning to Jazz next.

I did the same, just to find her shrugging slightly.

"I was just telling him about the Night Market," she explained, and at my confused frown she added, "because he was curious about my coat."

Oh, duh.

Even the tamest anecdotes from that place are enough to raise some questions for just about anyone.

"I was under the impression that you were stuck with the clothes you died in," he went on, and only then did the extremely casual tone of voice hit me for what it was: A distraction. "Which would have been pretty shitty in my case, so I'm good with this turn of events."

Ghosts' outfits, and appearances in general, reflected their sense of identity, and would change and evolve to fit who the ghost became. It was rarely a conscious process, and because of that, the ghost would rarely have much control over the change.

But items of clothes themselves were much more easily altered, sometimes as easily as with a single thought, especially if it was for a tangible purpose, or within a specific timeframe. The best example I had of that was when Ember had teamed up with Youngblood and decided to match his pirate theme, which coincidentally was the day I learned most of what I knew about this.

But there were limitations, which is why Jazz had to buy her coat off somebody in the Night Market.

"Speaking of, how much did it cost?"

Neither her body nor her core were able to stand the Far Frozen's temperatures, so it was literally impossible for her ectoplasm to create a coat that could. Just like I, for example, wouldn't be able to create fire-proof clothes if I ever needed to. (Strictly speaking of ecto-fire and ecto-ice, of course: Jazz could simply go intangible on Earth and avoid any temperatures she found unpleasant.)

"Oh, just a book I read,” Jazz replied, vaguely, but she was quick to throw in more details before I could even ask for them: “I can't remember the name, but it was one of those encyclopedias you had in middle school."

"Do ghosts not use money?"

I turned to Jason, who was looking at me with a mix of casual and serious interest in his eyes,— in part, it felt like he was just curious, but he was clearly trying to prepare himself for when he became a part of this funky little existence.

"Currency is... Complicated?" I tried to shrug, casually. It didn't work. "Money does exist, but it's not the only option, and most currencies are very localized. Some spirits trade with memories, knowledge, skills..." Jason looked even more confused now. Good thing I would never become a teacher. "The price of the coat was Jazz's memory of having read that book, and all the knowledge she gained from it."

"It was a pretty good deal," she added, "I only read it because Dylan did, and I didn't really care for it."

I watched as Jason's eyes narrowed in concentration, the man willing his brain to wrap itself around the concept.

It was, admittedly, very difficult to visualize.

"And... The person who has it now, can they also use it to pay for stuff?"

"Yep.”

“Though the next person who gets it won't be able to tell who it originally belonged to,” Jazz remembered to add. Important detail for someone with a secret identity. “The identifying parts of the memory only stay for the first trade."

"What the fuck, kid," Jason sighed, with no trace of anger in his voice. "Your world’s pretty fuckin' weird, huh?"

I snorted, unable to help it.

It was oddly reassuring to hear it from someone else, even if I objectively knew it to be true.

"You're telling me,” I groaned. It was insane to think that, technically, I was now the biggest ghost expert on Earth. It was concerning how little I actually knew about it, with that thought in mind. How was I supposed to be a source of knowledge if I barely even understood things myself? “And now I'm supposed to explain it to other people. That might be the dumbest promise I’ve ever made, honestly."

My mood had soured again and it seems it hadn't been subtle.

But Jason's eyebrows raised, playfully. "I mean... If you’re not up to it, you could just dump them in here for a week and let them fend for themselves." I laughed, and Jazz's relief was palpable as she joined me. "Let the detectives detect, you know?"

The reassurance made it easier to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

It was actually, legitimately mind boggling to think about the fact that I was trying to tell someone everything I knew about ghosts. 

"That might not be that terrible of an idea," Jazz mused, softly. I turned back to her, slightly catatonic at the idea of her being on board with kidnapping. "Not abandoning them!" She quickly clarified, eyes wide and ignoring Jason’s laughter. "But bringing them here. Frostbite could probably answer their questions better than any of us, and I'm sure he wouldn't be the only one willing to try."

Bringing them to Frostbite wasn't a bad idea. I'd have to ask him, obviously, and sort out a method of transportation that didn't include balancing them like a Jenga tower, but it could actually work.

"Who else did you have in mind?"

"Pandora," she half shrugged, looking for my opinion, "Princess Dorathea would agree, even if I don't know how much she actually knows," true on both fronts, I thought to myself, "and maybe even Clockw—"

My feelings about that must have been pretty fucking notorious for Jazz to immediately cut herself off, eyes a little wide.

Use your words, Dylan. "I'm not dealing with him right now."

"Right! Of course, that's fair," she replied, placating me with both hands in the air, a little green tint to her cheeks giving away the embarrassment I could already feel.

"Take a deep breath, kid," Jason said, suddenly more tense than I'd ever seen him before.

Jazz's attention even shifted to him, as the panic in his stance seemed out of place for what my reaction had been.

A small, horrible part of me wondered if it was just because of who I was now,— someone with as much power as me had to be kept pacified, appeased at all costs, because any negative emotion could spiral me out of control and prove catastrophic to the world around me; I was virtually a time bomb and everyone would treat me as such from now on,— before I realized that something else had happened at the mention of the Lord of Time.

While I could tell something in me felt different, it wasn't until I unclenched my hands that I noticed my nails had grown to short claws, and from there it was easy to guess that probably wasn't the only change my appearance had suffered. 

"I'm okay," I said, enthralled by the little cuts in the palms of my hands slowly closing, "I'm good. Don't know what came over me," I tried to dismiss.

"The Pits—" Jason started, only to visibly shake his head and retry, "that corrupted ectoplasm I have does something similar to me," he told me, reassuring. "The anger just... Takes over everything."

What?

"No, I wasn't—...” Okay, be nice about it. “I mean, I am angry, really angry, but it didn't feel as bad as you're describing," I started to explain, just in time for a yeti to open the door and interrupt me.

When she lifted her head from the folder in her hands, a grin appeared in her face.

"Oh! Great One, welcome back," she greeted.

"Hi, Ava," I smiled back. Avalanche had been one of the yetis I'd spent most time with, both before and after going to the Cracks. She was, as far as I could tell, one of the very few ghosts in the Far Frozen anywhere near my age. "It's nice to see you again."

Which is not to say she was near my age. She was likely several decades, if not centuries older, but she was one of the youngest yetis around and we bonded over being babied by the elders of the village.

"It's been a while," she nodded, "though in all honesty, I thought it'd be even longer. It's not common for you to return so soon,— not that anyone complains when you do, of course."

"I'm a shit friend, is what I'm hearing," I tried to joke, the truth behind those words only hitting me after they'd sailed the air. I only came to visit when I needed something, after all. Why they'd continue to offer their help was honestly beyond me.

"That's not what I said at all," Ava replied, unbothered, before moving on: "So. Are you ready for the results?”

I turned to Jason, since he was the one who should be feeling ready.

“Shoot,” he replied.

“I'm not carrying any weapons,” she replied, matter-of-factly, “although I believe that is not what you meant.”

She'd grown used to human expressions, probably against her will, after my stay here. That's why I wasn't surprised that her reaction was so composed: She'd replied to her interpretation of it, and then made it known that she realized there was a different meaning to it she didn't know.

“Uh- No,” Jason confirmed, “I meant you could go ahead.”

Ava didn't miss a beat to nod in understanding, and started heading for the main desk in the room.

“Very well. You'll be happy to know the scans were very conclusive this time around, so now we know exactly what we are dealing with.” As she explained, the folder she'd kept tucked under her arm got placed on the table and the aforementioned scans (that looked surprisingly similar to regular x-rays) were spread out for Jason- and the world- to see. “So, as Chief Frostbite explained earlier, the specifics of your death would have turned you into a ghost under different circumstances. These lines here are how we can tell,” and Ava pointed at a faint outline inside the scan of Jason's body, shaped like a smaller version of him, “your soul started to absorb ectoplasm, but it returned to your physical body before the process was done. This proto-ghost seems to have melded into your human body, as your soul wouldn't have need for it after your resurrection. It’s not something we're worried about, however. It is fairly standard when it comes to revenants.”

The word put all my senses on high alert. A revenant- what I'd thought I was at first, before I transformed for the first time,- a person who had died and, due to the circumstances, managed to brute force their way back into their body through sheer will alone to, in most cases, get revenge for their deaths.

Jason didn't look— well, feel— surprised by it in the slightest.

There hadn't even been a mention of revenants in Jason's rundown, and he was certainly aware of that now. He'd had more than enough time, too, between the first and second round of tests, but he hadn't told neither me or my sister and, honestly? That was fair. (How could I sit here and judge? Up until 48 hours ago I was the personification of lies of omission.)

“So, it's confirmed that's what I am now?”

Ava looked slightly surprised at his question, but replied easily: “Given the results we've seen, and what you've told us about the events, we can safely say that yes, you are a revenant.”

Jason took a deep breath, slow and controlled, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Go on.”

Ava looked a bit uncertain, just for an instant, at his attitude, but she gathered herself with ease and soon was continuing to speak:

“While up to that point everything was going on as expected, coming in contact with the Corruption so early during the process is what caused the Pit Rage, as you know it.” Ava pointed now to a different scan, with a close up of Jason's chest. There was a dark spot extending below his collarbones, above his heart, and reaching up towards his throat. “The proto-ghost still required ectoplasm to fully form, and this gave the Corruption an opening. It still wasn't able to complete the process, as your resurrection finished before it could, but it was enough for it to become attached to your body. From there we can see that it started to grow, feeding on ambient ectoplasm as well as your emotions. Are you aware of how emotions work, from a ghost perspective?”

The question was mostly aimed at me, I realized too late. She was asking if I had explained that.

Had I explained that?

“Maybe, just to be safe—” You could do it again and make sure I didn't fuck it up.

Ava understood immediately.

“Ghosts, in our majority, are able to turn emotions into ectoplasm to sustain ourselves. Any ectoplasmic being needs a consistent source of ectoplasm to remain healthy. The corruption fed itself by transforming your emotions,— that were, and will continue to be, slightly enhanced as a result of your new nature.”

Jason nodded along to the explanation. “So this thing was eating my other feelings, and leaving only the anger?” He asked.

Ava was gentle with her correction.

“Not exactly. Revenants commonly feel all emotions with more intensity than before their deaths, however feelings of anger and betrayal tend to become especially powerful. It seems that the corruption can only feed on your anger, and in order to sustain its production at a steady rate, it found a way to recirculate your true emotions and create a feedback loop, not unlike a vicious cycle, to keep your anger growing. That's how recirculation causes the episodes of rage: It simulates the feel of a situation that would warrant an extreme reaction, and when it gets it, it'll try to keep it going as long as possible.”

Jesus fucking christ.

No wonder everyone was so tense talking about it. What a nightmare.

It was difficult to believe that he had been living, was still living, with something like that inside of him.

“It was making me angry so it could eat it,” Jason repeated, sounding suddenly very skeptical.

I really couldn't fault him for that, especially knowing he had to be aware of how ironic it was to doubt the explanation he was getting, after being totally fine with every crazy thing he'd gone through for it. (He's fine with the afterlife, he's fine with the magic portal to the radioactive ghost dimension, he's fine with the ghost yetis and with their freaky ass tests, but this is where he draws the line?)

“Does that sound familiar?” Ava asked, kind but diplomatic, like she was actually waiting for a response. She knew it and so did he; the test results didn't lie.

She wouldn’t try to convince him,— she didn’t need to.

There was silence as Jason actually stopped at the question. Thought about it. Realized he didn't like the answer. Gave it anyway.

“...Yeah.”

Silence settled again, for just a moment. For what felt like the first time during this whole visit, I could see his emotions on his face, plainly, without any disguise or attempt at controlling his expression for my sake. He'd kept a positive attitude the entire time, acting almost nonchalant, but now it was time to face the music.

“I'm sorry, Jason,” Jazz said, kind as always.

“Yeah, that fucking sucks,” I echoed genuinely.

“Language,” my sister chimed, unamused, and missing the switch in his expression, just barely visible, that her reprimand caused.

“So,” he suddenly said, his voice back to the stern tone I associated with him, as he looked up at Ava, “how do we kill it?”

The yeti stammered for a second,— not like anyone could blame her.

“It is not something conscious, therefore kill would not be the right word,” she explained. Not the explanation I expected to come out of her mouth, if I'm being honest, but an important one regardless. “Think of it as an infection. Something we can fight and eliminate.”

Things in the Realms couldn't exactly be killed, but Jason was bound to find that out sooner or later. 

Tentative hope seemed to bloom in his soul, and I wondered if anyone else could see it. 

“And... Eliminating it won't affect me being back?” He asked, slowly.

“No, it won't,” Ava replied, simply, with no hesitation.

I wasn’t sure if she realized it, but anything less than that would’ve been terrifying to hear. The amount of things he and I had in common was surprisingly small, and yet I couldn’t help the feeling that I knew exactly what being in his shoes felt like, especially right now.

The way things were now— this new thing he had become— was uncomfortable, and painful, and unpleasant, but it was the price to pay for life. It was the price to be here. It was a price he, and I, could pay. Would pay, for however long we got left. The only way to stop it was to stop everything else too. It was an unpleasant truth but one we'd had to accept in order to keep going.

Now he was being told that he didn’t have to keep paying it. He could stop. It could go away.

It sounded too good to be true, which meant it likely was. Jason was looking for the trick.

I couldn’t blame him. I’d be doing the same.

“You brought yourself back,” Jazz added, playfully tactful in a way I'd only ever seen her manage, “the corruption just came along for the ride.”

Ava hummed her approval at the explanation, and I could have sworn that in the time it took Jason to nod along, he'd become five years younger.

“How do we fight it, then?”

“It seems that you already have been, as a matter of fact,” Ava replied, scientific excitement lightning up behind her eyes, “we wanted to take a closer look because the shape of it was concerning. Do you see how it looks as if it's stretching out?” She leaned into the desk and excitedly showed what she meant. At points, it looked like the thing was a sentient piece of gum trying to expand as much as it could. “This is because it used to be bigger, but it couldn't sustain that size and was forced to shrink.”

“What does that mean?” Jazz asked, almost mindlessly.

“It means it wasn't being able to feed at the rate it once was,” Ava explained, and then turned to Jason almost beaming.

“Why's that?” He asked, eyes slightly wider, looking like he was afraid to hear the answer to that.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” the yeti smiled, “whatever you were doing seemed to work, even when it wasn't knowingly targeting the source of the issue.”

Jason—

Jason kinda stopped again.

But there wasn't any tension behind it this time around. He just breathed, looked at nothing and sighed, not really out loud, “it was working?”

It wasn’t actually a question, so nobody tried to answer it. 

Ava realized then and there that this was a big deal, beyond the scientific aspect of it, and metaphorically took a step back.

Then she took a literal one.

“This was a lot of information, so I’m sure you have a lot to think about and discuss. Here,” she started, handing him a folder that Jason took a few seconds to grab, “you’ll find a copy of all the information we put together today. The details and time estimates for each of your recovery options are outlined in the last few pages. I believe it’d be best for you to take a few days to consider before making the decision, as well as to make sure you don’t have any further doubts.”

She was kindly kicking us out, but only to make sure he had a clear head before proceeding. I couldn’t really take offense to that.

And it seems all three of us had reached the same conclusion, because I wasn’t the only one who looked glad to leave.

Chapter Text

Cass watched her dad pace. Not really pace, because he wasn't walking around, but she knew him and she knew his fear, concern, worry— most importantly, she knew the things he did to soothe them: On the inside, yes, but pacing.

And Cass... Well, Cass understood. She had her ways of pacing, too.

Not a lot of things made her nervous, she and her dad had that in common, but the Pit Rage worried her sometimes. Jason could not beat her, she knew,— but whenever the green appeared, Cass could expect hurt to follow, and not the hurt Alfie could heal in the med bay.

Hurt was bad. Worst, was everyone accepted it. Deep down, they thought it would never go away. And Cass didn't know enough about it to say they were wrong.

But Dylan did.

She knew, knew the how’s and why’s and what she didn’t know, she was learning. She'd been making it go away without even trying— and now, she was going to do it on purpose. The green was going to go away, Cass had no doubts about it anymore.

(Green had always been a bad thing before. Something wrong, that hurt; something to use only on the worst of times. Green, now, was more: It was still bad, sometimes, and other times it was her sister, her powers, her friends and their strange world. Green could be anything. Cass liked it more that way.)

Dylan had taken Jason into the (good) green to make the (bad) green go away. And not a lot of things made her dad nervous, but the green was number one and his kids were number two.

So he sat really still and he tried to focus because once he knew everything, he wouldn't be nervous anymore. Cass knew it didn't work that way, but so did her dad. And since Cass had her ways of pacing, too, she wouldn't point it out.

She would, instead, wait until she had an opening to crawl under his arm and onto his lap before he could say anything about it. (He'd have to reach his hand out sooner or later.) Cass would hang out there until her dad stopped pacing or until her siblings came back,— whichever happened first.

Perfect plan.

Her dad grabbed the mug on top of the desk.

Cass pounced.

Success.

Jason, in case you were wondering, was doing great. Awesome, even.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

So what if he had a ghost fetus decomposing inside of his body and making him insane? At least now he knew what the fuck was wrong with him. At least now he knew how to fix it.

Knowing that he'd been doing it on his own didn't exactly hurt his ego, either. There was a magic cancer in his body that he'd had no chance of fighting by himself and he'd fucking done it anyways.

Jason could tell he'd be riding that high for a while.

Now if only the rest of his body would get the memo.

Something in his stomach felt unsteady, like a dizziness concentrating on the wrong organ, and he was glad that the sisters accompanying him were focused on their own conversation because he wasn't too excited to find out how much of that was reflected on his face.

Jason had received good news. His body was refusing to process them correctly.

He barely kept track of what had happened after the whole thing was over. They'd wanted to say goodbye to the boss yeti but he hadn't been available, so instead they went back to the lobby area on the ground floor and Dylan had called out for the ghosts from the manor, somehow? Jason hadn't really understood it. 

She'd spoken some garbled words he understood to be something like《Mina, we are ready to go,》 before waiting for a response he didn’t hear and opening a portal again.

This one they could see through, unlike the green swirly nightmare that had been the other one, so Jason hadn't been as worried to go through it, knowing he'd come out in some sort of neon park.

He’d also been expecting the blonde from before and he’d expected her to be accompanied by someone, so he didn't find himself surprised. There was something different about Mina, something in the way she looked at them— at Dylan,— something that he was pretty sure he could see in the man too. Jason didn't get to think about it too much before the pair decided they were staying longer, since after making arrangements for their return they were parting ways.

He wasn't sure where the other two were off to, but he knew they were headed back to the place their first portal had dropped them at because of reasons.

The trip, albeit mind-numbing in its repetitiveness, settled Jason’s emotions enough that he was able to play attention to the conversation that ensued once they got close to their destination:

“Ughhh,” Dylan groaned, childish, and turned to her sister with pleading eyes. “You sure you don't want to try and resell the coat? We have time.”

“No we don't,” Jazz replied, deadpan. And then, in a kind but firm tone— the tone of wise people— she added: “It won't get any easier by hiding out here.”

“I knoooow,” Dylan whined. It was a good thing that she knew what her sister meant, because Jason had no fucking idea what was being discussed. The girl’s shoulders were about ear height when she managed to explain: “It just... It sucks. It sucks so much.”

At this, Jazz’s face softened. “It won't suck forever,” she reminded. And then she looked back at him, letting him know she remembered he was there, so Jason figured he should probably ask.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dylan was quick to reply, sobering up. “The feelings thing is worse on Earth, but Jazz is right.”

Feelings thing most likely referred to her empath abilities, which Jason was, as a general rule of thumb,  not particularly a fan of.

Dylan, luckily, seemed to agree with him on that front, based on what he'd heard from the kid so far (absolute fucking dread), and, less luckily, also seemed resigned to something that she couldn't change.

But if it was worse on Earth, it was only logical that something here was causing it to lessen. Which meant it could be affected, i.e.: there was something to be done about it.

“How come?”

Phantom (and not Dylan because when he looked at her talking, the difference in mannerisms seemed abysmal,) didn't take too long to hum in contemplation before an answer came to her.

“I'm not completely sure. I think it's the ectoplasm here that acts as a buffer. Since it's so conductive, it spreads the emotions around?” While there was undoubted certainty in the facts she was stating, it was the combination of them, the relation of cause and effect, that made her tone sound like a guess. “Don't know if that makes sense. Whatever. I'm not complaining.”

“Whenever you're ready, then,” Jazz said, a ghost of a smirk on her face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan sighed, rolling her eyes, right before a portal appeared in front of them. “Let's get this party started.”

Their return to the Manor received a lot more fanfare than Dylan had gotten the first time, and it was easy to decide that realization was probably better off untouched.

Jazz, who hadn't left her side, looked like her older-sister-senses were tingling for a split second before deciding to spare Dylan's life.

Dylan appreciated it going unmentioned, especially since it had no right being that big of a deal.

Bruce and Cass had been expected. Alfred and Duke too, to a smaller degree. Damian and Dick shouldn't have come as a surprise, and technically neither should have Tim or Steph or even Barbara on video call on the screen—... Maybe it had something to do with even the dogs being there, but in any case it was just surprising enough to make Dylan halt in her steps.

Jason had been holding on to her hand, but, immediately upon seeing the full house that awaited them, had made a quick escape into the changing rooms with some lame excuse. Dylan was not fooled, mind you, but he’d casually dropped a “fill them in in the meantime, would you?” before disappearing, which probably meant he hasn't really been trying to be subtle anyway.

Honestly, it was a good thing she sensed the guilt he felt about it, because under any other circumstances a stunt like that would have required payback.

But alas. She knew the feeling (literally and figuratively), so her brother would be spared.

None of this had any effect whatsoever on her actual feelings about the matter, clearly, and soon enough her face got bad enough to warrant some pity.

“You both look tired,” Bruce said, and she could feel Jazz getting amused at the irony, “the full report can wait until morning. But—”

And Dylan was not heartless, okay?

(As of late, she was literally anything but.)

“Jason will be fine,” she said, and the flood of relief that surged through her managed to ease her growing headache. 

(Sidenote: Wow.)

Bruce was closest but it wasn't enough to stop the rest of their emotions from reaching her, relief-joy-hope-gratefulness-relief-hope-relief. Yet a part of her knew that just a sentence would never be enough to satisfy them, especially being who they were, so she tried to summarize the rest to the best of her abilities: “Frostbite ran some exams, figured out what is causing it, and told us how to fix it. There's still some technical stuff to sort out, but the main thing—”

“It can be cured,” Bruce stated, waiting, praying for confirmation.

The yes was halfway out her mouth before a sour taste overcame her.

Bruce was the first, yet not the only one, who noticed.

Jazz put a hand on her shoulder. Reassurance. She didn't need to say it for Dylan to know what she meant. They're not like that. That's not what he meant.

“Depends on your definition of cured,” Dylan explained, colder than she'd intended. “But he will be fine.”

Bruce sighed, barely, and Dylan had the time to notice how well the man controlled his (frankly overwhelming) emotions by the time he replied:

“Thank you.”

“Of cour—” Dick was hugging her. Dick had not been there a second ago.

Okay. Alright.

Dylan didn't hate this.

Cass piled in not a second later, and not even the extra weight was enough to keep Dick from standing up to his full height, both girls in tow.

(Dylan might have started floating, just a little bit, to help ease the weight.)

Another person slammed into them soon after, Steph's voice, “Group hug!” ringing right next to Dylan's ears, before Dick realized it was starting to drag on and released his hold.

Cass and Steph took a step back too, and— And now people were looking at her. Why. What had— Oh. Right. Floating.

Dylan plopped down to the floor and tried not to look too mortified.

(It was fine, they knew, they were cool with it, everything was fine—)

“Um—” 

“Hope you’re up to speed by now,” Jason said, reappearing from the dressing rooms, “because I am out.” 

Dylan turned to see him heading straight for his motorcycle, and whatever panic she had been feeling immediately made room for an emotion that she could only describe as don’t you dare/what have I done to deserve this treatment/why do you hate me.

“Jason—” Bruce started, almost entirely convinced that it would be futile.

And to be honest, Dylan had expected to be left to deal with her feelings (and their questions) by herself. It was not an assumption that she figured required questioning.

What she had not expected was for Jason to hesitate, stop on his feet and turn back to look at her, looking annoyed and feeling resigned.

“Look, I’ll be back—” a pause, an inhale, a groan, “at some point, and you can ask me about it. Dylan wasn’t even there for all of it.”

And before she could even start feeling appreciative of his valiant sacrifice, Jason got to his bike, threw his helmet on and sped off into the night.

Silence reigned for a few moments after the roar of the engine got too far to reach human ears. Which, speaking of...

The flash of light felt strange with so many people witnessing it, but Dylan was tired.

Bruce’s voice was gentle when he spoke next:

“Go get some rest. And,” a small pause, uncertainty tinting the sides of his soul for its duration, “thank you.”

“No problem,” she replied, flattened under the weight of his words, of the situation,— of her own actions, even. “Good night.”

A chorus of goodbyes echoed down the cave, just long enough for Dylan to wonder when she’d get used to living with people who actually replied to her.

It was after Alfred had left her alone, and after she’d finished the veggie wrap of some sort and a glass of water that had been thrust into her hands (“After an expedition of such magnitude it would be injudicious to send you to bed without a proper meal” and no, it didn’t matter that she’d had dinner already, thank you for asking) that Dylan finally started heading to her bedroom.

Her perception skills had increased wildly after the accident, which probably isn’t a surprise for most people. What does usually warrant some disbelief is the fact that, actually, her ability to feel eyes on her predated the accident by a long shot, a product of Spirit Sight combined with paranoia, that allowed her to confirm whether the feeling she’d get down her spine was actually well founded.

Over the years, that skill had sharpened into something Dylan knew she could trust. Which is why, when she turned, she did so already using Spirit Sight.

The person behind her was new. Dylan was certain she'd never seen her before and, though once upon a time she might have considered the possibility of a strange woman having a reason to wander around the manor, knowing what she knew now it seemed unlikely. 

This was bad news.

"You are definitely your father's daughter," the woman noted, interested, stepping out of the shadows.

And that meant she knew about the basement.

Great!

She was fucked.

"How did you get in here, ma'am?" Dylan asked, maybe a little too calmly.

But going for a 'who are you' or 'how do you know that' would’ve been pointless, in her opinion, considering that she’d met enough shady people by now to know they're not the type to give straight answers.

You know what they are the type to do, though? Brag.

"Batman has yet to find a way to keep me out of his life," she replied, and in her voice there was some sort of gentle amusement, like she was sharing a private joke with her.

Okay— that had been a very concise answer, which she could actually respect as a personal choice but right now, was the opposite of what she wanted.

It was likely fine, though, as long as Dylan could keep the mystery lady from doing whatever mystery thing  she was here to do, it was a matter of time until someone noticed,— someone who would know the appropriate reaction for this situation.

If she was lucky (ha) then maybe she could get to bed without yet another person knowing her secret.

The mystery woman stood proudly, her long straight hair falling loose behind her back, and with her eyes fixated on Dylan, she analyzed what she saw.

But how to get attention on her? With everyone relevant downstairs, nobody was going to be paying any mind to the cameras in the manor. Maybe, if she could get the lady to go near the cave, she would be spotted.

"If you're here for him, then you might want to hurry— I'm pretty sure he's leaving soon."

"I'm not here for him," she corrected, not unkindly.

Oh, goddamnit.

"What... What are you here for, then?"

If she turns out to be a ghost hunter I'm jumping out the window, I swear to God.

"I'm here for you..." Of fucking course. "...Jade."

Chapter Text

If she turns out to be a ghost hunter I'm jumping out the window, I swear to God.

"I'm here for you..." Of fucking course. "...Jade."

...

I—...

Wh—..?

I could feel every muscle in my face going limp, and I barely managed to lock my knees in place before they buckled under the weight of—

No way.

What?

"Wait, you're—" Jade. As in Martha Jade, as in the name your parents gave you, as in—

The woman smiled, entertained but not mean. "Yes. I am."

"Oh my g- Ancients, is it really you?" It was so pathetically clear now that I knew it— her skin was darker than Damian's, but her eye shape was identical and her hair had the same texture and holy shit, that's your mother standing there. This person built a body for you to live in. (And look what you did to it.) "Hi— I—... Nice to meet you."

"It's good to see you again," she replied, like I wasn't downright ridiculous.

I'd taken several steps towards her before I remembered, hey, this lady broke into the Manor and she knows about the basement.

Mother or not— this was still bad. (Right? Or was this normal? Did vigilantes bother knocking on doors?) I tried to recall what little I knew about her: Her name was Miranda Tate, she was Damian’s mother too, and... And that was about it. 

It was difficult not to start imagining answers when all I had were questions.

"Bruce didn't tell me you were coming," I said, fearing the answer I could feel coming.

"That would be because he didn't know," she said, after minimally raising an eyebrow in amusement. (Did I look like that when I raised an eyebrow? Did she see herself reflected back in me? Why was this suddenly so important to me?)

I inhaled, slowly. “Are you here to do something bad?”

She chuckled, with an emotion that I suddenly identified as affection gleaming in her eyes.

“I was. But Death was faster,” Excuse me, what the fuck? The horrible thought that she could be talking about me, about my death, flashed through my mind for an instant. I pushed it away like my life depended on it. “But that’s probably for the best. Your father would not have taken kindly to my original plans. Now, at least, he might let me stay around a little longer.”

“Why?” I asked, a string of fear steadily wrapping itself around me, “What were your original plans?"

"The man responsible for taking you away from me had to pay for such transgression, wouldn't you agree?"

I had to force myself to ignore the mushy feelings that sentence was giving me, to be able to focus on the many negative ones.

"...So you came here to kill him," I said, hoping she would correct me. She did not.

She did not.

"I came for you, my child."

But with an answer like that, how could I stay hung up on it? The realization that she, that someone, finally, had noticed I'd died, and had wanted to avenge me also didn't help. I should be horrified but all I could do was think this is how a mother should react.

"I—... I'm glad you did."

A sly smile blossomed on her face, and she closed the space between us, wrapping her arms around me. 

After a few long seconds, she took a hand to my face and flinched when she felt my skin. "You're freezing," she said, a slight frown appearing in her face.

"I run cold," I tried to shrug.

There was an instant of disbelief, a millisecond-long glare that told me she wasn't buying it, before it vanished without a trace.

"What has your father told you about me?"

"Well—”

“Talia.”

I was the only one who flinched at the new arrival.

So much for oh, I can tell when people are looking at me, huh? Also, what did he just call her?

“Hello, beloved.”

Bruce’s face was shielded, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t worry me. What did this look like from his perspective? Would he think I helped her get in? Would that be a bad thing?

“I was wondering when you’d show up.”

The tension on her face, though I hadn’t seen it appear, made a noticeable exit at his tone. He wasn’t angry,— if anything, he sounded tired.

“I would have come sooner if you had told me the news,” she replied, a little too pointedly to be joking.

“I tried,” he shot back. “You’re not easy to reach.” At this, her head turned to the side for a moment, as if accepting the charges. Bruce turned to me then, calmly. “Dylan, this is Talia al Ghul. Your mother,” he then added, as if I didn’t obviously already know,— she hadn’t released me from her grasp during the entire showdown, so I was still in her arms.

“Uh, quick question,” I said, raising my hand, and then turning to face her, “I thought your name was supposed to be Miranda Tate?”

“You didn’t tell her my real name?” She asked him, slightly mocking and not-so-slightly outraged, “Does that mean you didn’t tell her of her heritage, either?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, displeased. There was a hint of righteous frustration in the air when he turned to me again.

“Dylan,” he said, his face again a blank mask that I didn't dare to look behind, “do you remember what I told you about the place that Damian grew up in?”

(Was this a good moment to mention I hate pop quizzes?)

“That it was very different from the U.S.,” I recalled, “and that he was adjusting.”

He gave a nod, sighed, and explained: “Damian grew up with your mother, in a place called Nanda Parbat. It’s in the Middle East,” he supplied, at my clear curiosity. Talia allowed him to go on, almost expectantly. “Your mother is part of an organization led by her father called the League of Shadows, also known as the League of Assassins.”

I flinched back violently, away from her, before I could even think of stopping myself.

“What?”

“Your grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, is one of the people I trained with,” and he sent a meaningful look at the floor. “We split ways because of our conflicting beliefs.”

Something about his tone, so meticulous and diplomatic, felt incredibly ridiculous. Maybe I was the only one who thought so, since looking back at the woman all I found was a freezing glare in an utterly still frame, focused intently on the situation.

I was the one out of place, running almost purely off of shock.

“Why—..?”

I couldn't finish the question.

“I kept this from you because I didn't know how to explain it, before you knew about the mission.”

“Okay,” I muttered, still completely in shock.

Assassins. Fucking assassins! Are you for real!? This was the moment something else clicked for me, too: I knew the name Nanda Parbat. Because while I’d been running around playing house in the castle, my friends had been learning about the corrupted ectoplasmic hell hole that Jason had been thrown into— a hole that was located in Nanda Parbat and owned by—...

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I turned to Talia and found her looking a little hurt.

“I will not hurt you, Jade,” she promised.

“But you would hurt other people,” I replied, feeling undeservedly betrayed. I’d just met this woman, she didn’t owe me shit.

Because fuck, any other option would’ve been manageable. I could’ve dealt with pretty much anything, honest, but this? Assassins? No. No, that was just... “It is not as simple as that—,” she tried, but I wasn’t having it.

That was where the line was. 

There was a rage simmering under my skin that I could recognize as ghostly, yet it was far from unexpected. Nobody took death more seriously than those who had experienced it, after all.

“It’s pretty fucking simple where I come from!” I argued, my voice reflecting my emotions too transparently. Bruce stepped in between us, using his broad figure as a shield, but I couldn't at the time properly process that he was trying to protect me. "You— Why—? How can you—?"

My voice was strangled and I felt like I was trying to swallow a brick. In the end all I managed to do was smother my face against Bruce's back and close my eyes before they gave me away.

"You should leave," Bruce said, cold and unwavering. I didn't hear her response, if she gave one. A few moments after, or maybe a few minutes, he told me, "She's gone, Dylan."

When I took a step back, my eyes were already stinging.

"Were you ever going to tell me that my mother is a murderer?" I hissed, betrayal slipping into my voice like venom.

"Dylan, I—"

"How many people has she killed?"

"I don't know." Bruce didn’t seem to find the right words. He wasn’t the one who should be explaining this, anyway. "I'm—"

"No, I'm sorry, I'm not angry at you, it's just—... So disappointing.” And now I was pouting. Great. “I wanted to— and I— I mean..." A hiccup escaped me and by then there was no stopping the sob that came out after. "I'm so sick of having to conciliate my love for people with the horrible things they do."

"You don't have to."

I laughed, cynical. "Don't I?"

What would I do if a ghost came to me and told me my mother had been the one who killed them? How could I even begin to apologize? To make amends?

Did I not have enough inherited transgressions to rectify already? Were the sins of the mother really a necessary addition to the list?

Sam and Tucker had not been easy to convince, but eventually Jazz got them to agree to wait for Dylan to be done with her midnight snack.

There wasn't really a need to pretend to not exist anymore, as far as either of them was concerned, so what was really the point?

But Jazz had told them that Dylan could use a moment to herself, to decompress after the day she’d had and honestly? Yeah, no wonder. They could wait. They were cool like that.

But then Dylan had closed the door of her bedroom behind her with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands and that had not been part of the plan at all, thank you very much.

—Dyl, what happened?— Jazz asked, in the time it took the rest of them to process the sight in front of them,— What’s wrong?

—Um, so...— Dylan took a deep breath, almost choking on it, and ran her hands up her face and through her hair, looking for some semblance of grounding,— I just met my mom..?

—What?— Tucker muttered, weakly,— What did she do?

(Dyl would, later that night, find an odd comfort in the speed at which Tuck had assumed her mother had been the one in the wrong. It was, in a way, a compliment, a testament to the image he had of his best friend, and Dylan was reassured to know it was such a flattering one.)

Dylan stopped for a moment, as if bracing herself for the words about to come out of her mouth, and the disbelief in her face didn’t really prepare her friends for the answer of,— she’s basically a serial killer?

—You’re joking,— Sam stated, not actually accusing her, more like begging for her to be.

—No. I mean, kind of. She’s the head of something called the League of Assassins so I might as well make it shorter.

The silence that followed that statement lasted uncomfortably long seconds, before Dylan made eye contact with her friends and snapped them out of it.

—Holy shit,— Tucker gasped,— that’s what the temple is for.

—What temple?— Jazz replied immediately, afraid of being out of the loop.

—The one with the ecto pools,— he replied, before Sam took over:

—The one with the creepy old man with a fucking portal to the Realms in his basement,— she groaned,— remember? Batman’s files said it belonged to what’s his face and then Mina said he shares a last name with Damian!

Looking at Dylan, all they got was the poster image of exhausted resignation.— Of course it's under a temple. Where else would you put your murder cult?

Tucker pulled up his PDA and started rummaging through files, quickly finding what he was looking for.

Slowly, the puzzle pieces that were the facts about her family started coming back to her, and piecing themselves together.

After learning about Jason’s resurrection and the reason why everyone hated the bridge, the singular mention of the al Ghul name was too easy to let pass, to forget to ask the follow up questions that it merited.

Dylan's brain was still not used to the knowledge that she didn't share DNA with most of her new siblings but that there was an exception, and that said exception shared a mother with her, too.

Her friends had mentioned that the ecto-pool guy was part of Damian's family, and it hadn't clicked for her, up until she was standing in that hallway, that that meant it was part of hers, too.

al Ghul.

—Her name is Talia al Ghul,— Dylan said, blankly, just to see if it helped her process.

—Dude, creepy old guy is your grandpa,— Tucker said, looking up from the screen.

Jazz looked like she wanted to chastise him, but Dylan just groaned and threw herself in  the bed, so it was probably fine.

—Now what?— Sam asked.

—I don't know,— Dylan sighed.— Nothing, I guess? I can't be fraternizing with someone with a body count, obviously, not unless I want the entire Realms to hate me, so...

—So business as usual, then?— Tucker suggested, acting nonchalant.

Dylan had to take a second to think of her reply.

—Let’s just-... One problem at a time. Alright?

Jazz was the first to nod in eager agreement.— Exactly what I was gonna say.

Sam and Tucker traded a look, but soon enough they were nodding too.

The best part of that plan was that it only needed one of the many other crises they were trying to balance.

—Did you find him?— Dylan asked, sobering up.

—No. Tucker made copies of everything and I took care of the rest, but, well...

—There was no trace of the fruitloop anywhere,— Tucker said, audibly disappointed,— and no clues as to where he's hiding, either.

—Damnit.

—Language.

—Sorry,— Dylan said, more tired than apologetic.— At least my trip was a little more successful. Jason's gonna be okay.

—What’s up with him, then?

Dylan half shrugged,— He died weird and came back weirder. I don't know what he's okay with me telling people.

Sam raised an eyebrow, amused.

—Since when is that a problem? The dead are great at keeping secrets,— she grinned.

—The dead are terrible at keeping secrets,— Dylan shot back without missing a beat.— Besides, he knows you exist. It feels wrong now.

—Fair,— Tucker chimed in, before Sam could try to argue again.

There was a beat of silence.

—Frostbite had a daughter,— Dylan said, and then ignored her friends’ reactions,— Pariah killed her.

—Oh, shit,— Tucker sighed, and turned to apologize to Jazz before she could say anything about his language.

—That’s awful,— Jazz agreed,— but it's not your fault.

Dylan hummed noncommittally, grabbing a pillow to smother herself with.

—You’re not gonna change?— Jazz asked, staring disapprovingly at her outfit. (She'd bought a very nice PJ set, but it'd be nicer if she ever actually used it for a change, in Jazz’s opinion.)

Dylan's answer was lost somewhere in the pillow that was covering her face, but it was clearly one for the negative. She did kick off her shoes before putting her feet on the bed, at least.

—Goodnight, Dyl,— Sam said,— get some rest.

She got an answer that nobody understood, but the message was clear.

Dylan was asleep not ten seconds later.

Father was the one to tell him.

“Your mother was here.” Damian knew better than to let any reaction show. “I have reason to think she will be staying in Gotham for the foreseeable future. I won’t ask that you stay away if she contacts you, but I need you to talk to me about it.”

It wasn't a question but it still required a response. Damian gave the right one: “Of course, Father.”

Mother had come to Gotham, and Damian knew it wasn't because of him.

He wondered whether she'd met Fenton already, and what her reaction would have been if she had. Did Fenton know about the League? Did Mother know about ghosts?

“I imagine that the recent developments are not for Mother to know about,” he asked, feigning disinterest, “isn’t that so?”

“It isn't our place to decide who gets access to that information,” Father had said, sagely. “Dylan will share it when and if she chooses to.”

Damian decided his opinion wasn't warranted in this situation, and thus kept it to himself.

Nothing about that interaction, aside from the original source of it, was particularly unexpected.

What had not been expected was for Fenton to seek him out after school the next day, with wide eyes and unsteady hands.

"Can I help you?" Damian asked, evidently expecting a negative. Fenton failed to deliver.

"Can I ask you something?"

He should’ve refused. He should've said no.

He did neither.

Dylan went on: "Could you tell me about your mom?"

He couldn't say why he did, but he replied: "You mean our mother?"

Dylan's lips thinned, and she nodded pathetically.

Father should be very grateful for all the progress he'd made.

"What do you want to know?"

A weak, sad laugh escaped her. “Everything,” she replied, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Just— What is she like?”

Damian took a second to think. The image of his mother's face appeared on his mind, distinct, and when he opened his mouth he did his best to make it justice.

"Mother... Is strong. Capable. Beyond intelligent. She is the most cunning person I've ever met. Her training shaped me into who I am today."

"And... Aside from that?" Damian, although he wanted nothing more than to run from the conversation, stared at the girl in silence. "What about when you weren't training?

"I was always training," he replied, bluntly. There was a hint of pity in Fenton's face at his words. Anger simmered at the thought. "Don't be naive, Fenton. Anything less than that and I wouldn't have survived. In the League, weakness is fatal. Softness would've been a death sentence."

"I'm sorry it had to be like that," the ghost replied.

Damian huffed.

"I don't know why I expected you to understand-"

"No, I do understand." He strongly doubted that. "My mom also..." Fenton struggled to form the words. "She did what she thought she had to do to keep me safe, even when... Well, even when it wasn't..." Fenton sighed. Damian... Maybe she did understand. "They would've gotten along."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Damian said, sincerely. His upbringing had been ruthless but any cruelty had had a purpose. He wasn't a normal child, he couldn't afford to be if he wanted to become who he was supposed to. But it didn't seem like that had been the case for her. She was, had been, a normal child. There had been no reason for her pain.

"Thanks," she said, and Damian believed she meant it. "I don't know If Bruce told you, but she was here last night."

"Father mentioned it, yes."

"Does she come often?"

"No. She's not one to do social visits." Dylan nodded, slowly. "She came to meet you, I presume."

"Yeah." Guilt bloomed in her face, and Damian clocked it immediately. The meeting had gone poorly, as expected.

"And she told you about the League," he said, just to confirm his theory. He wasn't sure what was guiding him, exactly, to continue this conversation. If he'd been forced to come up with something, he would've relied upon her new found power and authority to put together some sort of reasoning, of ulterior motive - but at that moment, the thought hadn't yet occurred to him.

Fenton, as her response, swallowed.

"You were scared."

"I was pissed," she corrected, with a bite she hadn't shown before. For some reason beyond Damian's understanding, she looked embarrassed by it. "Death— It's something I take very seriously. It's bad enough that she's killing people, but to be president of the fucking Murder Club, I just— I can't. I can't."

Damian did a considerable effort not to take that personally.

"You understand I was raised to take over that position one day, correct?" He asked, pointedly, just to watch her react.

She stammered, just for an instant, but not from the emotion Damian had expected. She looked, if anything, confused.

"You're a child, Damian," she said, almost as if she were reminding him, "you didn't know anything else. She's a fully grown woman, it's not the same." Damian didn't respond to her outburst before she added, her fire once again replaced with shame: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk that way about her. She's still your mother."

Not a lot of people kept that in mind. Damian would give her that much. She was a murderer, a criminal and a villain, and his mother. The one who had raised him, who had kept him safe. The first person to love him, even before he was considered deserving of it.

Only half of those things seemed to matter to most.

"She's your mother, too."

Fenton didn't have an answer to that. He was fine with the silence.

Chapter Text

It wouldn't happen for a while, but eventually Damian would decide to leave. Only then would Dylan manage to ask the other burning question in her mind.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Damian turned to her with already narrowed eyes. Dylan made it a point to keep her face still. She'd have to hold her ground if she wanted to get an answer.

"I believe Father has already answered that question, repeatedly," he replied, sounding annoyed.

"He did, but I'm asking you." Two could play that game. "I'm not staying unless you're okay with that,— all of you."

"You expect me to admit I'm scared of ghosts, Fenton?" He shot back in disbelief.

Dylan did not roll her eyes, and that was a win in her book.

"That's not what I asked."

Damian scoffed, insulted. "You might as well have. I may be the youngest but I am not a coward."

"It's not about fear," she tried to correct, to no avail.

"I am perfectly capable of handling this threat, Fenton," the boy hissed.

"That's not what this is about!"

Bruce had tried to tell her all his children were fine with her continued presence in the Manor, but that was not for him to decide. She had to hear it from them. Damian was, admittedly, not her first choice to start those conversations, but they were already here.

"Maybe not for you," he said, "but that is the only reason that'd justify making you leave."

"If you don't like me—"

"What?" He interrupted, “If I don’t like you, then what?” His anger seemed to dampen as he went on: "I do not make decisions for you, nor for this family as a whole. I may not like you, Fenton, but that doesn't not mean you must leave," he said, like Dylan was a moron for not realizing something so obvious. "It is not up to me to decide who belongs to this family. That's something you should be grateful for."

God damn.

Damian turned his back to her and promptly left, annoyance transparent in each step.

That... Could have probably gone worse.

School had been, so far, somewhat of a respite from everything. Sometimes comfortingly familiar, sometimes uncannily strange, the Academy was a school like any other in the ways that mattered, and utterly incomprehensible in the rest.

If I hadn't known any better I would have thought most of my classmates were pulling a prank on me, acting out the most outrageous stereotypes they could think of for the fun of it.

But no, actually, they were just like that, all the time, genuinely.

But even among crazy rich people there had to be some common ground. Like, statistically speaking. That's what had motivated me to go looking for it in the first place.

(Bruce had asked, over dinner a few nights ago, if I'd seen any clubs that interested me. I'd had absolutely no answer for him.)

Which led us here.

I walked into the classroom, eyes scanning the unfamiliar room. I hadn't had any classes around here, so finding it had been a struggle. Which meant, of course, that the room was already pretty full by the time I got there.

There were five people there that I didn't know, and one whose face was familiar.

"Hi, is this the astronomy club?"

"Dylan!" Amy gasped, startled.

"Uh, yes, you're in the right place," spoke a boy I guessed to be a senior, looking startled at Amy's reaction, "my name's Andrew, I'm club president. Welcome."

Amy had turned away from me by the time I could even consider answering, so I just tried to roll with the punches. "Thank you. My name is Dylan. Nice to meet you all."

When the meeting ended, Dylan was the first one out the door. She had not meant to be, but being the one who hadn't brought anything specifically for the club, there was nothing for her to pack.

The second person to leave the room did seem to be in a rush.

"Dylan, wait!"

When she turned, she came face to face with the first face she'd learned in school.

"Hi, Amy," she replied, blandly. She wasn't angry at the girl for maybe-probably spilling the beans about her background and then maybe-probably ignoring her afterwards, but that did leave them in a pretty awkward spot.

Dylan had never been good with awkward.

"I just—... I wasn't going to say anything, before, but if you're joining the club then— it would be super weird if I didn't," ah, great. She was bringing it up. "I didn't tell anyone. I can't prove it, because duh, but I just wanted you to hear it. Even if you probably don't believe it. It—" Amy licked her lips and pulled out her phone. "Someone took a picture of you and the Waynes," she explained, showing the tweet that had shared it. It was from a restricted account with a username that Dylan couldn't decipher. "I don't know if someone else said anything or it was just the most obvious guess, considering how crazy these few weeks have been, but—. Okay, you probably don't care about that. I just wanted you to know it wasn't me and— And to say sorry for ghosting you after. My friends kept asking me what we talked about and I told them it was just school stuff, so if I acted like we were friends they'd know I was lying. Which is super dumb, I know, but I can't stand them when they get like that—..." Amy licked her lips again, cutting herself off. "I've been talking your ear off, haven't I? I'll let you go. Sorry. I— You don't need to answer me or anything. And it's totally fine if you don't believe me. I just thought that it'd be worth saying it, in case you did. I'll stop now. Bye."

The girl strode past her before Dylan could process what had just happened.

But Dylan was quick on her feet, so she didn't make it very far.

"Amy," she called, making the girl turn, a furious blush steadily growing in her face, "I believe you. Thanks for telling me."

"You— do? I— Yeah, of course!"

"See you in class," Dylan smiled, and waved until the girl was out of sight.

Tim was only a bit surprised when Dylan jogged up to him before dinner, but he figured it was only natural. They were siblings now, and for all the oddities she had in common with them, it seemed this was something Dylan was staying steadily normal about. And normal siblings talk to each other.

“Is it a bad time? I just realized I didn’t ask Jason when he was coming back and I don’t really know how to contact him...”

“Oh!” Again, Tim wasn’t sure why he’d been taken so aback by her words. It was, by any means, a very predictable question, but it still took him a second to reply. “I don’t know when he’s planning to come, but I can give you his number. I should add you to the group chat, too, since we’re at it.” Dylan looked at him wide-eyed at that, but she nodded soon enough. “It’s kinda surprising it took us this long to remember it.”

“You’ve been busy,” she tried to reassure, effectively freezing both of them as soon as the realization set in. “That... Sounded bad,” she tried to backtrack, but a laugh escaped her before she could.

A part of him couldn't help but start looking into the gesture, in search of any trace of— God, it sounded paranoid even to him. But he did it anyway, just in case. To his relief, something about her expression helped Tim believe she genuinely hadn't meant it as a dig, so he allowed himself to laugh too.

“Like you’re one to talk?” He shot back, gently but with a clearly raised eyebrow.

Dylan giggled, and threw her hands up in surrender.

“Well, in my defense, the time dilation was crazy. It was over a week over there,” she explained, and Tim immediately committed that sentence to memory out of sheer habit. Dylan must have sensed something off him, because she seemed more serious when she added, “Not like it made it any easier, but still.”

Tim wanted to ask. But he wouldn't.

Dylan appreciated it.

Both knew what the other knew. That made it easier to let things go.

The next couple of days passed by in the slow, carefully clumsy stumble of pieces falling into place. Dylan found herself, in spite of her hesitation, letting her body relax in the place she'd been offered. It was, in part, a conscious choice of blissful ignorance that carried her through her days, first at school, then at the manor and finally at the realms, trying to split her energy evenly across all aspects of her brand new life and pretending, stubbornly, not to know what her brand new family was getting up to while she was gone. And, okay, technically, she didn't actually know. But she had an idea.

To be even more fair, it was worth noting she hadn't exactly mentioned her nightly trips either. (Dylan was sure they had an idea, too.) So if she could keep her cards to her chest, they had to be allowed the same courtesy. And... Well, Dylan wanted to believe it was a temporary thing. It likely would be, honestly! As long as she couldn't bring herself to tell them about the coronation, she couldn't justify her escapades. And since she couldn't bring herself to talk about it, they had to get their information from somewhere.

The secrecy would only last until Dylan could open up again, and until then, the familiarity of it all was comforting (and lacking the life-or-death stakes it used to have in Amity, so. Y'know. That was nice)

Dylan knew she had to tell them.

And she would!

But.

Not now.

Soon!

Just not this soon.

She just wanted to... How to put it? “Let the dust settle”? Let herself settle? It might've been a shitty excuse but it was the only one she had.

It'd been a long couple of months preceded by an even longer couple of years, and Dylan was tired. She still had a long way to go to catch up on sleep, let alone on schoolwork, and she could handle them knowing what she knew (theoretically), but there were quite a lot of things she barely understood, still, so. She'd get a slightly better grip on the situation and then she'd start bringing more people into it. It seemed only logical, if you asked her.

So Dylan split her attention between school, kingly duties— well, studies, for now, technically— and getting herself back into shape— whatever that meant for her nowadays. And she ignored what the bats were up to, for the sake of fairness.

Sam hadn't been bored often since meeting Dylan. It wasn't a bad thing— it wasn't good, either. It just was: With Phantom around, calm didn't last. She'd been too worried to be bored while she was in the Cracks, but once they'd gotten news that Dylan was safe, sound and slightly more haunted than before among the yetis, Sam had allowed herself some tedium. There was nothing for her to do, at least nothing exciting, and while Sam could entertain herself if needed, there was no denying life with Dylan and Co. was not something easily replicated.

Truthfully she hadn't exactly enjoyed those weeks (months?) of quiet expectation, but it was... It was hard to be upset when the reprise in excitement meant that Dylan was safe. Usually, it took some excitement to achieve that, (Sam couldn't fight alongside her, to Sam's resigned displeasure, due to the fact that it was a little too easy for her to get caught up in the fighting, and lose sight of the protecting. After the second bystander hospitalized as a direct result of her actions, Dylan had sat her down, and gently asked her to never help her again. Dyl hadn't meant it but they'd had a fight about it anyway, and it took them a while to hash out a way for Sam to help without sending Dylan into an obsession-fueled spiral;) but all they could do at that time was lay low.

Boredom had been out the door as soon as Dylan had returned, and the insanity she brought with her had been in a steady crescendo, reaching its peak after Plasmius' arrival at the Wayne home, and the days following that had been... Weird, for lack of a better word. "Weird" for their standards, which was not an easy feat. But "weird" was determinedly giving room to "boring". Not a common phenomenon. Not a bad thing. Not a good thing. Just something that was happening, whether she liked it or not.

Dylan was, currently, at a meeting with the school's astronomy club. It was the second one she attended, and last time Dylan had barely lasted eight seconds before her eyes filled with stars when she started telling them about it. It would've been funny if any of them could remember the last time they'd seen it happen. Sam was hanging (uncomfortably) (stubbornly) off the roof of the house, feet dangling down in a way that would've made her heart race if she'd had one. One of the Wayne ghosts, Catalina or whatever her name was, was beginning to get on her nerves, and Sam was fairly certain nobody would be pleased with her if she allowed her instincts to guide her actions. On Earth, that happened often. That's exactly how Tucker found her: annoyed, glaring, and pretending not to be slipping off her spot.

—Hey,— he greeted, ignoring her antics,— Dyl come back yet?

—No,— Sam replied,— she has like an hour to go, I think. Nerd club, remember?— Begrudgingly, she sat up and floated back to a more reasonable distance from the edge.— Why?

Tucker knew what he was doing when he answered, smirking:

—She has a visitor.

—He doesn't look that sick to me.

—You sound disappointed.

—Shut up. You know what I mean. I thought he'd look worse up close. From what Dyl said, you'd expect him to be on his deathbed.

—Well,— she chuckled,— technically...

—You know what I mean-!

Sam cackled.— Yeah, yeah, don't get your wirings in a twist.

Tucker got halfway to coming up with a response before he was interrupted.

"Are any of you hearing that?" Jason asked, intensively focused on his surroundings all of a sudden.

None of the humans in the room responded, which was an answer in and of itself.

Uh oh.

—What's he talking about?— Muttered Sam, vaguely interested.

"Jaylad—"

"Shh!" Jasyon interrupted, "I can't tell where it's coming from if you start yapping."

—You think he can hear us?— Tucker asked.

—He can't.

"Yes I can!" The man replied, eyes searching frantically around the room.

Sam glared at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

—That's a fluke.

"No it isn't!"

—Double fluke.

—Sam,— Tucker complained, as Bruce went to calm Jason down.— Don't break Dylan's older brother. She'll be upset.

—I'm not gonna break him. We'd know if he could hear us,— she tried to reason.

"I am literally telling you right now that I can hear you.”

Sam took her hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose.

—If we ignore him he might get bored. Eventually,— Tucker mused, right as Sam reached the same conclusion.

However,— What happened to not breaking Dylan's siblings?— She recalled, accusatory.

—We're doing him a favor,— Tucker said.

—I'm pretty sure he'd disagree with that if we asked him,— which is not to say Sam didn't agree with Tucker.

They’d both seen what happened to humans who could hear them, after all.

"I do disagree."

—Motherfucker cannot take a hint, huh?— She bit out, genuine annoyance finally making an appearance.

A hint of defiance flashed through Jason's eyes. "Call Dylan," he told his siblings, making it a point to not reach for any of his pockets.

—Not if I call her first,— Sam shot back, petty, 《Dylan, your brother claims he can hear us!》

It took four, six, almost nine whole seconds for the ghostly figure of Phantom to fly into the house and nearly crash against the table.

"He can what!?"

Tim looked at his phone, eyes wide. "I haven't even dialed," he said, realizations starting to dawn on him.

"What happened to your club meeting?" Asked Bruce, concern spiking visibly.

"Body double, it's fine," Dyan practically ignored, "what do you mean you can hear them?"

Jason blinked at her, her panic bouncing off of her and into him and then back in a vicious cycle.

"I can hear them. Like shit, but I can."

"What do you mean like shit?" She insisted, sounding surprisingly objective in spite of the crude language and the tone of her voice.

"Like they're speaking two rooms away, but I can't actually pinpoint a location."

"Oh.” Dylan blinked. “Shit."

"Exactly."

"Language, please," Bruce interjected. "Why is this bad? I thought there were going to be changes."

Dylan sounded very close to choking when she replied: "Yes, later! Small ones after he heals, potentially bigger ones when he dies— This is way too soon, he should not be hearing dead people!" One moment after saying that the realization sank into her bones. "Damnit, we need to go see Frostbite." She shot a glare at the ceiling and whichever higher power could be found there, but soon enough she was focusing again. "Go get ready, I'll make up some excuse for the club and meet you down in ten."

"Wait, wait, Dylan," Bruce interjected again, trying to stay steady in the face of the whirlwind of emotions happening in front of him, "I thought this club was important to you."

"It is," she agreed, easily, "but not more important than your son potentially fucking up his health for the rest of his eternity."

"Why not keep the double?"

"Across dimensions?" She asked back, and Bruce heard the problem with his idea without another word. "I'm flattered you'd think I could, but I don't think it's physically possible. I'm just gonna have to ditch."

"Dylan," Bruce insisted, again. She turned to him expecting his next obvious question. "I will call and ask for you to be excused."

"But—"

"But?"

While the guilt didn't exactly disappear from her face, relief grew enough to overshadow it eventually.

"Okay, that'd be great, actually," she admitted, "I really like this club."

Bruce reached for his phone then, and with a quick hand gesture to indicate what she was doing, Dylan returned to her double until she could be excused.

Properly, this time.

—Not gonna lie, I hadn't thought about all the pros of this arrangement,— Tucker mused.

—Am I finally gonna get to see the straight A student I heard so much about?— Sam teased.

By the time she'd met Dylan, the girl was barely scraping by. And that had been the beginning of the end.

Tucker didn't get to see her in her full glory, either, but he'd been there for the talks regarding lowering grades, the B's that were met with disappointment instead of praise, the steady downward spiral before the portal opened. Ghosts had utterly destroyed many things for Dylan, including her GPA.

Tucker wanted to reply with something snappy, a fun one liner, whatever joke he could come up with. What he said instead?— I hope so.

Chapter Text

Bruce made it to the Academy a lot faster than Dylan would've expected. She was excused and allowed to leave,— nobody really questioned Bruce too much about why or where he was taking her. When they made it to the car, he told her to be careful and that he'd see her as soon as she got back. Cass was about to get out of ballet practice, apparently, and Bruce wanted to wait for her since he was here already. Dylan pushed past the thought that her Dad would've never thought of doing something like that, and instead got into the car with Mr. Pennyworth.

The thought to send a double after him invisibly, to make sure he was going to do what he'd said, crossed her mind momentarily. The Vlad-ness of the idea sent a shiver down her spine. Nooo, thank you. She'll deal with her intrusive thoughts the old-fashioned way. Being alone with Mr. Pennyworth— whose rejection of her apology still stung, if she was being honest— did wonders to push those thoughts away.

"How was school, Miss Dylan?" The man asked, plainly.

It'd be easier if he just just ignored her, she guessed. But the butler kept up the perfect appearance of politeness, not even letting a single stray thought reach her about his true feelings.

“It was alright,” she responded, trying to sound neutral. “Thank you for asking.”

There was a moment of silence, long enough that Dylan thought it would extend until they arrived at the Manor, but when they pulled into the next red light, Mr. Pennyworth adjusted the rear view mirror and opened his mouth.

“Miss Dylan?” When she looked up, her eyes met his. Dylan tried not to look too startled and instead focused on the sincerity waiting for her behind them. “Have I done something to make you think your presence is not wanted?”

So much for not looking startled.

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been avoiding me, Miss,” he explained, eyes back on the road, “I was wondering whether I’d accidentally given you a reason to.”

Oh. “Oh.” That’s not an answer, Dylan. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be,” he reassured, “I was simply looking to rectify any misunderstandings. I hope you know I am overjoyed by your decision to stay, and that I have no qualms regarding your species nor abilities.”

Dylan wasn’t breathing right. Or at least she didn’t feel like she was. And focusing on that was easier than focusing on what she’d just heard.

“Oh,” she said again, weakly.

But she had to answer, didn’t she? Mr. Pennyworth— Well, he likely still wanted her to call him Alfred,— was doing something nice here, and it wouldn’t be okay to not respond.

But how?

“Um...” He’d gone for it, hadn’t he? Maybe she could just try to do the same. “It’s just—. When I came back, and tried to apologize, I just thought—...”

“Ah. I see,” Alfred hummed, understanding settling in his eyes. “I fear I didn’t express myself properly,” he then said, “I had only meant that you owed me no apologies, Miss. I have watched many of your siblings come and go through the years. A return is cause for celebration, regardless of circumstance.”

Oh, she thought, but she didn’t say it.

“I... I didn’t realize,” she replied.

“I’m glad we could sort this out, then,” Alfred smiled, and for a brief second Dylan was hit with a wave of relief, satisfaction and something that felt suspiciously like love.

Cass tilted her head when she saw him arrive at the studio, but it didn’t take long for her to accept his presence and continue with her stretching routine.

She'd adapted some of these moves into her post-patrol routine, and Bruce was still amazed with the way she'd made them her own, seamlessly incorporating both sides of who she was into something that was both functional and beautiful.

There were other parents at the bleachers, but Bruce limited himself to nodding a greeting in their direction and sat on the edge, hoping to avoid conversation. He was, admittedly, not in a great mood, and the Brucie act was not going to help with that. The concern he felt regarding Jason’s latest development was... Considerable, for lack of a better word, but he had promised to trust Dylan. To trust she could keep them safe. So he would allow her to do her thing with the ghosts and the yetis, apparently, and hope that Jason was okay wasn’t too tired when he returned, to continue— or to start, really,— telling him about his trip to the Realms.

Jason hadn’t known Dylan wasn’t home when he arrived. He’d been visibly put off at her absence but he stayed anyway, and Bruce could only hope that was the sign of progress he so desperately wanted it to be. They’d barely gotten to talk about the yetis before Jason's eyes widened, and his whole body went taut. Bruce had feared the worst, but it ended up being unnecessary. It turned out to just be Dylan’s friends coming to see them.

The feeling that settled after that was... Not great. He’d spent the last week constantly checking his surroundings, hyper aware of the feeling of being watched that would sometimes wash over him, unsure whether he was being haunted or simply paranoid. He knew his children were going through something similar, too. Bruce hoped he’d be able to bring it up soon, once things had settled down some more and he no longer feared it’d push Dylan away from them. Ideally, the ghosts would be more comfortable making themselves known, but Bruce could always find a way to track their presence in the Manor: Bruce wasn’t against them being around, really, (even though a part of him was against it, admittedly, but it could never win against the fact that seemingly the entire world was full of ghosts doing more or less the same, that had been doing it for as long as death existed,) but he would appreciate a heads up if possible.

Ghosts were a reality. He'd known that since learning about Boston Brand. He hadn't been aware of how common of a reality that was, he hadn't grasped the full scope of what that reality entailed—... But he'd known that it existed. Only now, and only thanks to his daughter, he was starting to truly understand what that all meant. And while the knowledge was definitely unsettling, it wasn't— It wasn't something new. He couldn't try to return things to what they were because that didn't mean that ghosts wouldn't coexist with them, it just meant that they just wouldn't know about it. Therefore, it wasn't something that needed changing, because knowledge was a good thing.

And it was certainly not within Dylan's responsibilities to handle that for him.

Cass ran up to him and Bruce pretended not to have lost track of time at the sight of her wet hair and duffel bag.

“Good job out there,” he told her, giving his daughter a smile.

She looked at him with both a frown and a smile, accusing, “Didn’t see anything.”

Bruce huffed a laugh.

“I saw enough.”

Cass rolled her eyes theatrically, but eventually accepted the compliment. “Thank you. We go home now?”

“Soon. We need to stop by the office to pick up a car.”

Cass furrowed her brows, confused, and Bruce gave her a slight nod as he stood up. She understood him effortlessly: He’d explain what he was doing there when they were alone.

Making their way out of the studio and into a taxi was a swift affair, and once they were inside the elevator at Wayne Enterprises, heading down towards the lowest— publically— parking floor, Bruce tried to summarize: “Jason can hear the ghosts now. Dylan is taking him back to her doctors to make sure everything’s okay. I came to excuse her from her club, but thought I’d stay to drive you home.”

Cass raised an eyebrow, looking like she had something to say about that, but whatever insight she was planning on sharing was cut off by a couple of raised voices outside the elevator.

That wasn’t the floor they were going to but stopping there anyway was a decision made immediately, without need for any further words.

They were only on the first floor of the parking lot, right below the reception.

Tam Fox was the first person to draw his attention, in spite of being the shortest of the group.

“...As I’ve already said, Mr. Drake is not available and should you wish to schedule—...”

There were five security guards surrounding her, which seemed excessive and could only mean trouble.

Standing opposite to her, and responsible for most of the noise of the discussion, were three men in matching white suits, with identical dark sunglasses obscuring their faces and fully shaved heads.

“We are here in official business that doesn't concern any mere secretary—!”

Bruce recognized the outline of a gun in each of their waistbands.

They were armed, organized, and agitated. This was bad.

He had to de-escalate.

“Woah, what seems to be the trouble here?” He asked in lieu of a greeting, and watched as Tam’s shoulders relaxed at his arrival, even as the faces of the men turned smug and vindictive.

She and Bruce didn't really have much of a relationship, but Tam was one of the few people in the world that knew the truth, which for the purpose of this situation meant that she was getting ready for a show.

“Mr. Wayne! Finally. This woman was trying to convince us you weren't here.”

Bruce hated this man already.

“I wasn't,” he replied, dumbly, spoken almost like a question, in that tone that got people annoyed, “and we were actually on our way out, so..”

“It's in your best interest to stay, Mr. Wayne,” said the one who seemed in charge,— African American, early to middle thirties, bald, scar above his right ear,— probably not intending for it to sound as threatening as it did. “We bring an offer for you on behalf of the United States government.”

“Oh!” Bruce said, still feigning confusion, “Sorry, which branch of the government?”

“That's classified,” barked one of the two lackeys, immediately receiving a glare from the leader that made him snap his mouth shut.

“What Agent P means to say is that we should discuss further details somewhere private,” the leader said, confidently.

“Right,” Brucie hummed, “what did you say your name was again?”

“I'm Agent K, and these are Agent P and Agent M.”

“Agents?” Bruce had to bite down the clinical curiosity that took hold of him at that. They might have been color coordinated but they were a long way from displaying the synchronicity that came with actual rigorous training, especially for official State affairs. The question of who these people really were grew dramatically more interesting. “Do you have a badge I could take a look at?”

“We don't carry identification in the field, Mr. Wayne, as it could compromise our operatives,” Agent K said, solemnly, like he was talking about some great sacrifice. “Rest assured, once your cooperation is officialized you'll be granted the sufficient clearance to answer any of your questions.”

That was... Almost impressively nonsensical. Bruce was amazed they were managing to keep a straight face through it all.

He turned to face Tam before he let his entertainment show.

“Were you able to fit these gentlemen into Tim's schedule?” He asked, innocently, just to hear what he already knew out loud.

“Sadly, they took offense to the idea and attempted to break into Mr. Drake's office,—” Tam explained, fully playing along to the innocent act. Let the record state that Bruce never had any doubts as to why Tim liked her so much.

She didn't get to the part where security had to be involved before she was interrupted:

“Our objective was to not leave this building until you've been made aware of the threat this city is about to face. It was clear that a secretary would not be able to grasp the severity of the situation.”

“Who, Ms. Fox?” Bruce gasped, as close to outraged as Brucie could ever get. Tam bit the inside of her cheeks to keep her face still. “She's one of the brightest minds I've ever had the pleasure of working with,” he said, and he actually meant it, “so I can't imagine she would dismiss anything as dangerous as you're implying, unless—...” He trailed off, in spite of how much he would've liked to finish that sentence.

“Part of our job is to keep civilians outside of the line of fire, and whenever possible, unaware of the dangers that our organization deals with.”

It was only then that Cass made her presence known, pulling on his jacket's sleeve like a little kid and letting him take a peek at her phone's screen.

On it, Bruce saw a text from Tim, from less than a minute ago, with a singular word in it:

GHOSTHUNTERS

—Okay, then we're coming with you.

—What?

—What?— She repeated, feigning confusion. Dylan gaped at her, but Sam held her ground.— We’ve been hearing about this castle for a while, right? We should go see it for ourselves. It’s about time we went back to the Zone anyways.

—I wasn't going to the castle,— she tried to correct.

—Well can't you take a detour?— Sam was the only one insisting, but Dylan could feel she was speaking for the group. Jazz and Tucker had hung back, but they were eagerly awaiting her response.

—Sam-...

Dylan... Wasn't sure what to say. Should she be stopping this?

—Yes?

—I just-... Does it have to be now? I’ll be going back soon, so we could actually plan something out...

Tucker was the one who chimed in,— You literally always say that.

—And every time you leave our sight you come back with a new problem,— Sam said,— so this time we're going with you.

Again, was she supposed to be stopping this?

—Are you all sure?— Tucker and Jazz nodded without hesitation. So, they'd talked about it beforehand.— Then... It should be fine, I guess?

Look, in her defense, they'd taken her by surprise. She was aiming for a quick yeti E.R. visit, and this was supposed to be a thirty second conversation about it. A surprise introductory tour wasn't in the plan, but it seemed that's where her day was headed.

—Sam’s gonna have to hang back while we go see Frostbite, but we can meet afterwards and do the whole... Castle... Thing.

Jason looked between her and the general direction she was looking at, already bundled up in warm clothing, and tried to follow along. Dylan wasn't sure how much success he was having.

“Would this castle thing have anything to do with the Dracula rip off calling you ‘your majesty’ by any chance?”

Disregard that last comment.

“Huh.” Ancients fucking damn it. “Well,— yes, it does.”

Could she leave it at that?

Jason chuckled. “Fair enough.”

She could.

Thank god.

—I’m surprised he doesn't already know,— Sam commented, vaguely surprised,— the yetis are intense about titles, he’s gotta have heard it by now.

“He is, once again, standing right here,” Jason chimed in, visibly annoyed.

Sam rolled her eyes. Dylan was glad he couldn't see that.

“Well, from what I saw, the yetis are sticking with ‘great one’, at least for now,” she replied instead, “also, I'm pretty sure they all know; we're just not talking about it for the sake of my psychological stability.”

“I'm not talking about it ‘cause it's none of my business,” Jason chimed in, “for the record.”

—We can finally agree on something,— Sam replied, earning herself a disappointed look from Jazz.

“Y’know,” Jason said, turning fully towards Dylan with a shit eating grin, “once she stops ignoring me I think we're gonna get along great.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” she replied, and pointedly ignored Sam's huff. “Everyone ready?”

Bruce had to force his body to stay still as the realization that these insufferable morons had more than likely tried to murder his kid before passed through him.

He let his mind go through the motions in hopes that it would dampen the urge to break as many bones as he was able.

Tim had likely been following the encounter through the security cameras, had noticed the same red flags in their story, and had acted accordingly by analyzing them as a threat.

Since the start of their conversations with Dylan they'd been allowed past the toughest firewalls around Amity Park,— the ones that Tucker was responsible for,— but for the sake of those conversations they had decided to take their research step by step, meaning: Look into things that Dylan mentioned, and nothing more.

With the firewalls down Tim was now clearly able to find more about the parties involved in the situation, because while they'd found the Fentons with ease, that was mostly due to the fact that the couple had actively been trying to get past the media blackout, and the same couldn't be said about anybody else.

So. Bruce was truly very calm right now. So, Tim had found the identities of the men in front of him among the list of people of interest in Amity Park, and that identity was of ghost hunters.

“Just one sec, princess,” he told Cass, taking it as an opportunity to get his act together. Cass nodded with an easy smile on her face, but with a gleam in her eyes that promised consequences. He turned back to the group. “This all sounds very important, but I still don't really know what we're even talking about.”

“All you need to know—”

Bruce laughed over him, making a point to come off as bewildered. “I think I'm the one who decides what I need to know, right?” He asked, still chuckling, and turned towards his employees as if searching for their opinions.

It didn't surprise him that every single one of them was conveying different levels of disbelief. When he turned back to the so-called agents, he found them sharing glances with one another.

When K turned back, there was a resigned annoyance behind his eyes.

“We're here on behalf of the Ghost Investigation Ward of the United States of America,” he said, finally, clearly trying to remain imposing.

Bruce forced out a chuckle. “Ghosts?” He again turned to his audience, taking some genuine satisfaction at the amusement he found there. “Really?”

“Perhaps you have heard about us from your daughter,” K ventured, voice strained.

Bruce turned to look at Cass with a tilted head. She found it hilarious, but kept her face blank as she shrugged.

The fact that they were keeping track of Dylan didn't go unnoticed, however. He wasn't exactly eager to learn she'd been right to disappear as she had.

“I meant the Fenton girl,” the agent corrected, failing to keep his anger out of his voice. “She’s been a person of interest for our organization on account of her parents,— after their deaths she came into ownership of a lot of patents that we'd be happy to take off her hands. Maybe you'd be willing to talk to her, Mr. Wayne, once we're done here.”

Cass took his hand in hers right as rage took hold of him.

Right.

Right.

“Yes, about that,” Brucie chuckled, “I'm sorry to say we're already done here, gentlemen.”

One of the lackeys took a step and all five security guards sprung back into attention, something Bruce was very glad to see considering that if any of the agents got within arms reach he was going to strangle someone. Cass and himself were calmly herded towards Tam as security went back to what they'd originally been there to do,— escort the agents to their car and ensure they left the premises uneventfully.

“You heard the man,” the guard Bruce remembered as Donovan said, with an almost bored tone of voice, even as the agents started to argue again, “time to pack it up.”

As much as he would've liked to, as much as he knew he should have, Bruce didn't stay to make sure they left. With Cass on his heels he retreated back into the elevator and resumed the journey to his car, trying to handle the implications of everything he'd just learned.

If this is how they behaved while trying to make allies, what were they like once they'd taken roots?

Chapter Text

“So...” Jason started, faux-casually, “I heard you met Talia.”

Dylan stuttered mid-air, just long enough for Jason to worry she’d drop him. He wasn’t super confident in how strictly the laws of physics worked in the neverending green void, but Jason figured Dylan would likely catch him before he found anything to land on. There was gravity in the Far Frozen, and there had been gravity in the small island they'd briefly visited right out of the portal, but Jason wasn't fully convinced that the same could be said about the entire dimension.

Dylan blinked at him. She’d had, to her honest surprise, enough time to think about it during the last few days, but she hadn't talked about it with anyone other than Damian.

“Who told you?” She asked, playful, hoping to stall at least a little before poking the sleeping bear that were her emotions regarding that whole shitshow.

“I ain't snitching,” Jason huffed, nonchalant. Dylan couldn't help but chuckle. “But, y’know, since she set up shop in Gotham it was a matter of time.”

“She's in Gotham?”  Dylan asked, reeling from the nonchalance. (So that’s what that felt like.)

Jason was the one who froze this time, although with no physical clues to give him away Dylan could only go off vibes.

It didn't last, surprise and confusion soon replaced with something pointedly more negative.

“Figures B wouldn't tell you,” the man groaned, with a frustration that smelled of disappointment. Instead of dwelling on it, he explained what he knew: “They're keeping an eye on her, but it seems she's not here on League business.”

“She—” Dylan clamped her mouth shut, but it was a lost fight. “You know her?”

Jason sighed.

Dylan had not been expecting that reaction.

“After I came back, she's the one who—...” For a second, Jason seemed at a loss for words. He swallowed before continuing, “Talia looked after me when I was at the worst of the Pit Madness, and trained me afterwards.”

“...Why?”

It was kind of an asshole question, sure, but Dylan felt she was justified in asking it.

‘Looked after’ sounded a little too nurturing and kind for the murder cult lady Dylan had been introduced to. Sue her.

But Jason must have agreed because he laughed at her tone, and then stopped and gave his answer a moment of thought.

“The League... Played a part in my death,” he explained, curtly, “unintentionally. Ra’s had me resurrected as a sort of apology to B. Talia—... Well, she saw an opportunity and she took it. She was the one who told me about Tim, and—...”

He sighed, a tiredness settling over him out of nowhere. Dylan had bigger questions: “Wait, what about Tim?”

Alertness came back to Jason as he blinked, realization setting in.

“Right, you haven't heard the story,” he muttered. “It's— Shit, it's long, and— I guess all you really need to know is that I was furious that Bruce had replaced me with Tim, among other things, so when I came back to Gotham I tried to kill him,— among other things.”

Dylan’s reaction was a lot calmer than what she thought it should be, if she was being honest. But look, based on what she heard about the Pits, she'd kinda expected it to be way worse than that.

Then again, Jason was clearly keeping some things to himself, so it was too early to assume it hadn't been way worse. The regret she could feel— even though it wasn’t her own,— painted a grim picture that she knew better than to blindly trust.

“And Talia took advantage of that?”

“She wanted to come with me, for my revenge— She might've been offering help but she was just trying to use me to hurt Bruce. I was at least lucid enough by then to see through it.” A wave of oppressive sadness hit Dylan out of nowhere, but it took Jason just a moment to get it under control. “Y’know, sometimes I can't remember if the whole thing was even my idea.”

Dylan squeezed the hand she was holding, and Jason returned in kind. “I'm sorry, Jason.”

Neither said anything else after that, but there was no time to think about the silence with the outline of the Far Frozen in the horizon getting closer and closer, hand in hand with the promise of answers.

Duke was surprised to hear activity over the comms this early into his patrol, but that was one of the downsides of being on the day shift and he wasn’t about to complain about having some company, even at a distance.

“Does anyone know if Tucker left with Dylan?”

And, look, Duke will admit it: His heartbeat spiked at that. Last time he’d heard Tim say ‘Dylan left’ was when the girl had literally dropped off the face of the Earth, okay? And everyone was still a little afraid of being the one that made Dylan leave again, so it wasn’t hard to guess where the little surge of panic that ran through Duke had come from.

“Wait, she left?” He asked, instinctively.

“Oh, shit— Sorry, Signal,” Tim replied, “didn’t realize you were using this channel. Dylan took Jason to the doctor, everything’s fine.”

Okay. That was good. Duke continued on his patrol route, unable to tune out the conversation.

“From what I gathered,” Alfred spoke next, “all of her friends joined in on the trip.”

Tim hummed, noncommittally. His attention seemed to be somewhere else.

“Just find what you can,” Bruce said, “Cass and I will be there soon.”

Oh, so that’s why they were on comms.

“I’ve got it, B,” Tim replied, with a barely even there degree of insult taken, “but I wanted to see what they had on these people. All I’m finding is what the GIW has written about themselves, and considering recent events I thought it’d be wise to get our info from trusted sources.”

“What’s the GIW?” Duke asked, stopping for a moment. His focus had slipped almost completely from patrol, and B wouldn’t be happy to know he was running around rooftops while more focused on gossip than his surroundings.

Actually— Duke surveyed the roof he’d stopped at. Nothing of note. Okay. Good.

“Ghost Investigation Ward. Ghosthunters claiming to be government sanctioned. They came to Wayne Enterprises,” B rattled off, and Duke could hear the strain in his voice already.

Understandably, for the record. They’d known that ghost hunters existed— Dylan’s parents were ghost hunters, for god’s sake,— and there’d been mentions of others, but... 

But since when were they a thing in Gotham?

‘Cause listen, Duke might not be a super genius like some of the other bats but if he knew one thing, that thing was Gotham, and there were no ghost hunters here beyond your average paranormal enthusiast.

“What did they want?”

Bruce grunted.

Tim was the one who responded: “They wouldn’t say, but it sounded like they were looking for a sponsor or some sort of partnership. B kicked them out.”

Duke chuckled to himself. It was pretty naive of them to think they were going to get any other response, even from Brucie Wayne himself.

“Man, Dylan’s gonna love that.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It hadn’t even occurred to Duke, up until that exact moment, that there were any other options aside from telling Dylan about this.

And while he struggled to come up with the words to explain that, Tim was the one who started, concerned: “B—...”

“We won’t tell her yet,” the man declared.

Duke had to fight the urge to scream in frustration.

Didn’t we just cover this exact issue last week?

“And why would we not, Master Bruce?” Alfred chimed in, dignified and judgmental, with the tone of a man who would not put up with this nonsense.

Thank fucking god. Alfred to the rescue.

“It’s a pointless worry for her,” the man said, simply, “at least until we're certain we need her help.”

“Like we were certain about the bridge?” Duke asked, disbelieving.

“She's under a lot of pressure,” Bruce said in lieu of an answer. “There’s no reason why we shouldn't be able to handle this kind of threat without involving her.”

“Pretty sure she's already involved,” Duke insisted, and he was about to keep going when the sound of a shout. Damnit. “Someone please explain to him that this is a bad idea while I go deal with this,” he asked instead, feet already moving towards the noise.

Duke knew better than to stay on that channel while fighting, so against his base desires he switched off the conversation before dropping to the street.

Bruce— Bruce was a smart man. Well. He was intelligent. But for things like these, Duke had seen him act like an utter dumbass before. At least Alfred was on the call. Another thing Duke had seen extensively: Alfred had god-like powers against dumbassery. Duke didn’t have to worry if Alfred was involved. It’d be fine.

But, by the time he managed to get back to the call, there was only silence in the line. B must have gotten back already. That was fine. His patrol was almost over anyway. By the time he made it back to the Manor someone would have talked him out of it.

It was fine.

Jason asked for the big boy treatment this time around and Dylan was more than fine sitting in the waiting room.

She hadn't expected to be called back in, however, and somehow, again, end up in a check-up herself.

“What do I have to do with this, again?” She asked, theatrically, as Frostbite herded her behind the scanner.

“You are the one of the main sources of ectoplasm for young Jason,” the yeti explained, perpetually patient, “to understand what is going on with him, we must know what is going on with you, too.”

“Huh?” She replied, dumbly, but held still for the scan to be readable anyway.

Once the machine whirred down, she picked up where she'd left off: “I thought Jason would be taking dejectos or something.”

“That will depend on the treatment course he chooses,” Frostbite replied simply, “but it is becoming apparent that you're having a bigger impact on him than we'd predicted.”

Dylan turned to Jason next, hoping his face would have some sort of answer for her.

He just shrugged.

Nevermind, then.

“Meaning?”

“Jason's recovery is taking less than expected,” Frostbite stated, eyes running over her scan, “and it seems that's a result of the ambient ectoplasm around you, Great One.”

What.

“I'm gonna need a little more information than that.”

“Have you noticed ghosts growing more powerful by being around you?” He asked instead.

The ‘no’ was almost out of her mouth before she stopped. And thought. And realized.

“Well...” And then realized, again. “No, that was because of the portal, right? The portal opening made ghosts in Amity stronger,” she said, determined.

Frostbite’s face did something that could’ve been confused with a wince.

“That was a part of it, I'm certain,” he conceded. “But, at least as of late,” and Dylan silently thanked him for keeping it vague, “the ectoplasm that circulates through you returns to the environment with a much higher level of purity.”

Wait, what? Fuck.

More pure meant more powerful,— great for ghosts, sure, but for humans?

Fuck!

She had to set up a filter like immediately. And check the Waynes for radiation. How could she not have thought about this? All those years bitching about her parents and lab safety just to end up the same? Seriously?

Opening portals all willy nilly couldn't be helping, either. She couldn't stop coming to the Realms, but she needed to find another place to use as an interdimensional doorway.

“Kid?” Jason called out. Dylan looked up, refocusing her eyes. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she replied automatically. I'm just slowly killing your family with my stupidity.

“Whatever that means, I'm sure we'll figure it out,” he said, serious but earnest.

Right, everyone knew when she panicked now.

“No, I know. It's fine, I'm fine.” Get it together, Phantom. “So, what does this mean for Jason?”

Frostbite allowed her to put her emotions aside, to her relief.

“Thanks to his unusual circumstances, his body is particularly receptive to ectoplasm, which is why he's been absorbing it from the environment at such a rapid rate,” he started. He turned to Jason before going on: “It means that, for one, the option of fully stopping your ectoplasm consumption after the corruption has been dealt with is no longer viable.”

Dylan turned to Jason too, instinctively, so see if he knew what Frostbite was talking about. It was only when she saw his face that she remembered that Jason had left the Far Frozen last time with a folder, whose contents remained a mystery for her.

None of her business, then. Fair enough.

“I hope that wasn't the option you intended to choose, young one,” the yeti said, apologetic.

“No, I—” Jason took a deep breath. “I hadn't made a decision yet.”

“Should I go?” Dylan asked, fully expecting to hear a yes.

“Actually,” her brother stopped her, “I was kinda waiting on you.”

“What?”

“It—” Jason pulled the folder (how?) from somewhere deep inside his jacket (did he have an inside pocket on the back of it or something?) and started searching for something inside. “There was a chance that too much ectoplasm would slowly turn me liminal,” he said, ripping out the band-aid, “I wanted to learn more about what that entailed before agreeing to it.”

And he hadn't been able to, because she was keeping shit locked up tight.

Great.

“Sorry,” she winced.

Jason shrugged. “That's why I was at the Manor,” he told her. “I wanted to talk to you about it. Get it from the source, y’know?”

Dylan let out a weak chuckle and a sigh. She really needed to talk to them soon.

“It is unlikely that you’ll reach the level of liminality of the Great One,” Frostbite chimed in, almost as if warning him, “but eventually the line between revenant and liminal will start to blur."

Jason spared her a look, and Dylan pushed herself to meet it. He didn't ask his question out loud but she got it anyway, and in the most reassuring way she was able, gave him a nod as response.

He could ask. She'd tell him.

He turned to Frostbite for what seemed the final time, and asked, “But overall, I'm fine? There's no risk?”

“Not any that we know of, no,” the man replied, calmly.

“Then I guess that's all I needed to hear,” Jason said, standing up straight.

“I trust I shall be seeing you again, once you've settled on a decision?”

“You can count on it.”

Frostbite laughed, voice low and rumbling.

“Thank you for having us, Frostbite,” Dylan said, feeling perhaps maybe a little guilty about leaving so soon.

Looking back at the last couple of weeks it was hard not to feel like a shitty friend. (I mean, sure, she'd returned a few stolen artifacts she'd found in the castle a few nights ago but that was literally a direct result of him giving her access to their research on core binds. The final score was still very much in his favor.)

“Rest assured, Great One, it's an honor,” the yeti smiled, knowingly. “And it's to be expected that you'd have less time for social visits, with—” Dylan felt her eyes go wide in panic, but Frostbite stuttered, “...Everything,” he said instead.

Oh thank god.

Jason raised an eyebrow, but let it pass. Dylan soon calmed down enough to feel like an idiot.

“Still, thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied, simply. The trip back outside was a familiar one, but Frostbite walked them out anyway. While waiting on the elevator, he asked: “Are you headed back to the Living Realm?”

“Not yet,” Dylan replied. “We gotta go to Sam’s first and then to the castle.”

And that was a ‘we’ that Dylan hadn't yet fully processed. Team Phantom had hashed out the details of the plan once they were out of the portal— they'd wait in the Evergreen (lair) and she'd come pick them up afterwards to visit her brand new castle,— and Jason had taken her by surprise with a “Can I come along?”

Her knee-jerk reaction had been ‘no’. Then, ‘absolutely not’. But the stupidity of the situation was starting to get honestly embarrassing, and let's be real here, she wasn't confident in her ability to actually say the words out loud anytime soon.

If Jason went to the castle he was bound to find out— assuming (well, pretending,) he didn't already know,— about the king thing.

Someone else would say it, and Dylan wouldn't have to verbalize it, at least not for now.

So she'd agreed to bring him along.

Frostbite hummed. “Send my regards to the Evergreen, then.”

“Will do, Frostbite.” The doors opened and the gust of cold air that hit her face had her grinning before she could stop herself. “We’ll be in touch.”

Signal returned from patrol and, instead of heading to the changing rooms, immediately made a bee line for where Bruce was sitting. It was... Not completely unexpected, if he was being honest.

“We’re telling Dylan,” the boy stated, and only as he went on did his voice hesitate, “right? Tell me we’re telling her.”

Bruce sighed. That conversation had not been an unpleasant one, and he wasn’t looking forward to having it a second time. Alfred was upset with him, and withholding the good coffee from him as punishment. He also wasn’t looking forward to Duke’s version of that.

“We can’t,” he replied, and as Duke threw his arms up in frustration added, “not until we have something to show for it.”

“B!” Duke reprimanded, disbelieving, “We literally just went over this!”

And Bruce could see where he was coming from. Lying had led both parties to a very... Tense, situation. A situation that likely couldn’t have been avoided, yes, but lying remained the leading cause of it regardless. But Dylan had gotten very close to deciding that her presence was too much of a risk to them, and Bruce simply could not allow that to happen.

Besides, if the trips she was (quietly) taking each night meant anything, Dylan was already dealing with a lot. Whatever responsibilities she had as Phantom were clearly taking a toll on her, likely as a result of her title. (And yes, Bruce was trying not to dig into that until she brought it up, but it was hard not to put things together with everything he’d seen and heard so far.) The point was, not only would telling her about the GIW add on to the perceived risk to their wellbeing, it would also add yet another thing for her to take care of. Both of those things could be avoided if they just made some progress in dealing with them before they told Dylan about it.

“We’ll tell her as soon as we have a plan,” Bruce tried to soothe, “but not before. Dylan is worried we won’t be able to defend ourselves against her enemies,” he stated, “we need to show her that we can hold our own, at least against something like this.”

“It doesn’t need to be in secret, though,” Duke insisted, like it was obvious.

“We might not get a chance otherwise,” Bruce replied, simply, “if she decides that this is where the line is.” It was perhaps a bit cruel of him to bring it up, but it was important that Duke understood it: “If she chooses to leave...”

Duke inhaled sharply, and took several seconds to exhale.

We cannot stop her.

The meta averted his eyes towards the floor, cursed, and clenched his hands.

“Fine,” he agreed, finally, “but if she asks me, I’m not going to lie.”

Bruce gave a nod in return, and took a sip from his mug as Duke stomped his way towards the changing rooms.

The coffee was bitter.

Chapter Text

“Quick question,” Jason had started once they were on their way to Sam's, “is ‘the Evergreen’ the name of Sam's place?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Dylan replied, “sorry, did I forget to mention that?” 

“No, but Frostbite sent his regards to the Evergreen,” Jason recalled, and the question suddenly made a lot more sense to Dylan. “Is that a thing here?”

“Oh, no, it's just that one of Sam's titles is ‘the Evergreen’ too,” she explained. At Jason’s reaction, she felt obligated to clarify, “We don't know whose idea that was, for the record, but she's stuck with it now.”

Jason hummed. “Like you and ‘Great One’?”

Dylan took a deep breath.

Okay.

Alright.

We’re doing it.

“Kinda. But Sam earned her title,” Dylan managed. It was doable as long as she could keep herself out of the equation,— as long as she was talking about ghosts as a concept. She could get through it if she was an outsider,— funny how that suddenly wasn't a bad thing anymore, right? “It belonged to a guy named Undergrowth, along with a few others and the lair. They fought, and Sam defeated him.”

Jason whistled. “Damn. You must have a ton, then, right? Since you were fighting so much?”

“No, not really. To earn titles you need to be having a very specific type of fight. Plus I don’t think most guys I fought even have any to begin with.”

“You didn’t fight someone for yours, then?” He asked, casually.

“No.” (Then again, there was virtually no way to keep herself out of it if the goal was to be honest.) “That one was given to me, specifically.”

And the best-worst-best part was that Jason wouldn't pry. If she left it there he wasn't gonna keep asking.

Shit, he’d said that he knew about it and wasn’t gonna ask, so this conversation didn’t have to happen now.

But it had to happen eventually.

(And if Jason had heard about Plasmius calling her “your Majesty”, that was because somebody else had told him, which meant other people also knew. Not great. It also meant that the information could travel without her direct involvement, which was a very tempting concept.)

“The people of the Far Frozen have a prophecy that, according to some people, talks about me. Hence ‘great one’.”

Jason did a double take. “Damn. A prophecy? Like, full-on fantasy chosen one type prophecy?”

Tucker always made that joke. Dylan laughed.

It would’ve been easy to analyze his reaction, to look for a motivation behind his nonchalance, but she let the temptation pass. Maybe Jason was only pretending that this was no big deal. Maybe not.

Dylan was pretty sure that if he was, it was probably for her sake. It was also possible that she was being a self-centered jackass and that Jason had seen enough crazy shit in his life that this didn’t phase him.

At this point, she could live without the certainty.

“Full on.”

Jason enjoyed the accomplishment he felt from the rare sight of Dylan laughing, so it felt like the obvious next step to keep going.

“Well, at least it’s not world-ending or anything, right?”

To Jason's horror, Dylan's face fell. She stammered for an instant before turning her face away and—...

Jason cursed. "Motherfucker."

Dylan exhaled, gathering herself, and slowly attempted to meet his eyes again.

She didn't have time to decide how to answer him before he spoke again: "No wonder you're so fucking stressed, Jesus," he almost barked.

So long for non-chalance, well meaning or not.

Dylan, briefly, allowed herself to feel (childishly) vindicated, even if for just a second. ‘Cause, yeah, actually, she had reasons to be stressed. This shit was stressful! Dylan hated it! Thank you for noticing!

She did, however, know better than to let herself simmer in those feelings for too long, and soon she pushed them away.

Jason seemed to be expecting a response of some kind, so Dylan offered up a shrug.

"Christ," he exclaimed, visibly processing the new information, "I'm sorry to say but we are not done talking about this."

This she hadn't expected.

When she frowned at him, she found him looking straight ahead.

"I need a second, but I still have a lot of questions. Lemme just-"

Only at that point did Dylan notice the glow in Jason's eyes.

Ohhh. Shit.

"No rush," she promised, as reassuring as she could.

Dylan took her eyes away from him, in a lame attempt at privacy, ignored the clenching and relaxing of muscles at her side, and focused on the remaining journey ahead of them.

Dylan only looked back at her companion once she felt solid ground beneath her feet. Jason looked tense still,— the tendons in his neck visible from the strain, teeth clenched,— but when she tentatively probed his emotions, what she found beneath the clear anger was something closer to indignation.

"Jay?" She asked, quietly.

Jason unclenched his jaw, blinked a couple times and cleared his throat. "All good," he said, not very convincingly. "It's—" For a second, Dylan wasn't sure if he was actually going to tell her anything else. "It's not the Pit. Not all, at least. I'm still pissed but I don't think that's going away anytime soon, so."

And truthfully, she was so surprised to get an explanation that she didn't think twice about asking: "Pissed about what?"

Jason snapped his head back at her. There was a line between horrified and stumped, and Jason’s expression had belly flopped perfectly in the middle.

"...About the fate of the fucking world being put on the shoulders of literal child?" He replied, like he was stating the obvious.

Ah. Well.

When you put it like that...

"I guess..."

Jason rubbed his face, frustrated with himself. "No, look—" A deep breath. "Sorry. Not right now. Let's go find your friends, alright?"

Dylan didn't mind abandoning that conversation.

The Evergreen's dense shrubbery lessened near the edge of the lair, but it was a matter of steps before one found themselves completely surrounded by plant life. Even the paths were almost impossible to navigate without Sam, especially while trying not to damage the plants. Because, while the lair would always embrace its owner, it held only thinly veiled aversion towards everyone else, and it was always willing to escalate it into open hostility at the first sign of a perceived threat.

This all meant that Dylan heaved a sigh of relief when she found Tucker hanging out on the outer edge of the forest/jungle, since that meant she would not have to set out to find them inside it.

It was then a matter of minutes for Team Phantom to be reunited.

Tucker was all too happy to see them there, almost exclusively because it meant “returning to civilization”, i.e., getting out of Sam's lair. Since Sam was down for whatever got him to shut up about it, it only occurred to Jazz to ask about Jason's condition.

Jason didn't object to letting Dylan answer for him, and she relayed everything Frostbite had said,— Jason was fine, just recovering faster than expected. Jazz was glad to hear good news and Dylan was always happy to give them, and surrounded by that wall of contentment it took her a second to remember the rest of their conversation.

Sam took one look at her souring face and immediately dropped the smirk. “Ancient’s sake,— There's something else,” she said, even though it should have been a question. “Of course. What are you supposed to fix now?” 

Dylan— God, she'd missed this. It had to be a good sign, in her opinion, that her friend was no longer treating her like a ticking bomb.

“Not— I mean— It's actually my problem this time,” she prefaced, knowing what the look in Sam's eyes meant. “I need to set up an ecto-filtering system at the Manor as soon as we get back. Turns out that what happened to Jason was my fault, ‘cause I'm radiating more ecto now. Which in hindsight is super obvious and I can't believe I missed it, but oh well...”

“Uh, how much more are we talking about, though?” Tucker chimed in, a soft frown on his face. “Cause I'm pretty sure we would have noticed that, and I think I speak for everyone here when I say not only did we not, we were actually kinda under-radiated.”

When Dylan turned to meet his gaze, her first thought was to wonder how she hadn't seen it before.

Tucker had actual color in his face now, glowing in the most literal of senses and wow, he'd not been looking great earlier huh? None of them had.

“Oh,” she said, almost mindlessly.

The flowers wrapped around Sam's arms had gone back, from the opaque purple they'd had at the beginning of the day, to their original magenta. Jazz’s eye bags were (mostly) gone, and some roundness had returned to her cheeks. Her hair looked soft again.

“I’m s—”

“Y’know, I actually can't remember the last time I got so low on ectoplasm?” Tucker interrupted, pointedly. “I was thinking about it earlier. Definitely not since the portal.”

Jazz, quietly, chuckled.

“I honestly hadn't noticed until we got here,” she added. When Dyl thought that was hard to believe, Jazz went on: “It just hasn't been a concern in so long. I forgot I was supposed to be worried about it.”

Fine. Dylan would take the out she was being offered.

“So... Are we all ready to head out now?” Sam asked.

Jazz was— Well.

Coping. A little worried she could still somehow give herself whiplash from looking around so frantically, but mostly okay. Forgive her if her last experience with this place left her a little traumatized. The image of Dylan after the fight with Pariah... Jazz tried not to think about it right then and there. She had to remain present and focused in order to make a good first impression.

The castle was horrific, but the people inside it were not to blame. Dylan had prepared them a bit before heading out, but Sam and Tucker had gotten impatient with Jazz's questions before she'd felt ready to be there.

Still, there she was. At the castle's entrance. About to go in.

"You coming?" Her sister called out from the staircase.

Jazz swallowed the lump on her throat. "Yep,” she said, and started moving her feet before her brain could try to stop her.

Dylan was Tucker’s best friend. He’d known her for years (although only post-mortem), they liked the same hobbies (at least they’d had, back when she had the time to have hobbies), and they were inseparable (except when she was doing her Phantom thing).

He’d been there before Dylan was Phantom, so it wasn’t surprising that he knew her as a human more than he knew her as a ghost. And while the core aspects of Phantom had always been inside Dylan,— kindness, empathy, outrage at the world’s injustices and the core-deep belief that it didn’t have to be that way, that things could be better,— he couldn’t deny that Phantom had developed into its own, almost separate entity. Some of it had been on purpose,— the postures were different because Dylan had practiced how to stand to make herself look taller, he’d been there to help her with it,— and some had not,— the mannerisms were different because over time, she’d grown used to being treated differently depending on which form she was in and she acted accordingly, even if subconsciously.

The line was drawn, initially, between Fenton and Phantom. Dylan was the common denominator. But lately, Tucker was noticing, it was looking more and more like Phantom was the opposite of Dylan and, during the worst of it, like Dylan was an obstacle in the way of Phantom’s eternity.

But now, since settling into the Wayne brood, the line that had once been so carefully drawn and maintained was starting to blur. Tucker felt the relief even when he hadn’t dared to feel the worry that preceded it. (If Phantom overtook Dylan, did he still have a best friend?)

This he could work with. He’d died young but that didn’t make him a child,— he wasn’t going to throw a tantrum if his best friend was too busy saving the world to play videogames with him. Did he miss it? Yes, admittedly. And he wasn’t yet fully above feeling jealous. But he’d let that feeling run rampant once and Tucker could confidently say he’d learned his lesson.

When Sam (and, as a direct result, Phantom,) first appeared, he’d spend every single second he had free trying to get her to leave. He wasn’t dumb enough to actually pick a fight with the girl,— the bitch had eaten an Ancient, for fuck’s sake, Tucker was gonna get turned into confetti,— but nothing stopped him from making it clear that she was not wanted there, let alone needed.

It was kinda funny in hindsight, considering how much Sam had grown on him during the past few years,— and how apparent it had become with time that his friend had a very severe case of down-bad-itis. It was contagious, too, if Sam’s state was anything to go by. And while Jazz had apparently clocked it immediately, Tucker hadn’t fully moved past his “kissing is gross” phase at that point, and thus hadn’t realized that Dylan most certainly had.

It was. Weird, let’s say, to think that he probably never would’ve gotten beyond that point if it weren’t for Dylan. Most ghosts stay stagnant, forever the age they died at or, for those who made it past adulthood, the age they felt most like themselves. When you die as a kid you don’t have a lot to look back to, so basically none of them did. But there is no need to grow in a place where everything stays the same forever, so the same logic applied to that, too.

There was no need for Tucker to grow in the Realms. But if he wanted to keep his best friend, he had to keep up.

That had been true when Dylan started high school and it remained true now, as Phantom opened the castle’s doors for them.

Dylan was his best friend. Phantom was his best friend. She’d moved past the part-time town hero phase, so now Tucker had to follow suit.

Although, when his best friend introduced him as Tucker, the most brilliant mind she’s ever had the honor to work with, he figured it was only fair to give some credit to all the growth he’d already done by then.

Tucker wouldn’t be Dylan’s best friend if he hadn’t, after all.

Lady Darva had not been expecting them, clearly. Jason figured it was to be expected, considering he himself hadn’t been expecting to find himself there either. Two hours ago the plan for the day was to have a talk with Dylan, catch up with Alfie before the man hunted him down for an update on his health and then steal some medical supplies from the Batcave on his way out. Nice and clean.

Instead, here he was, standing in what could’ve easily passed as the setting for a goth retelling of a period novel. Honestly, not the worst place he’d wound up unexpectedly in.

Lady Darva had introduced herself as the stewardess of the castle (holy shit) and in a matter of minutes she’d been put up to date on the full situation.

Which, just for the record,— apparently Dylan wasn't keeping secrets from them because they were human, she’d been keeping secrets because of who she was as a person. (Only the specifics of what was kept secret that depended on species, though, because when Lady Darva stared at Jason like she’d seen a ghost (hilarious, he knows,) what Dylan proceeded to explain was this:

“Jason’s alive,” she confirmed, though it didn’t look necessary, “and he’s part of the reason why I stay in the Living Realm. I’m not fully a ghost,” she said, looking like pulling teeth would’ve been less painful, “I’m a liminal. Sorry I didn’t mention it before... To be honest I’m kinda used to people finding out on their own. Which I know some people did, so...”

“Dyl,” Jazz chastised.

“Right,” Dylan interrupted herself. She turned to Darva again, and the woman made an effort not to look as startled as she felt. “Um. That was kind of it, I guess? Jason’s my brother,” she remembered to add, “and I stay with my living family when I’m not here. Uh. Do you have anything you want to ask?”

To his genuine surprise, Lady Darva didn’t take a second to respond. The closest thing to hesitation he could see in her was the gentleness with which she asked, “how old are you, your Majesty?”

Dylan seemed to know exactly where that question was coming from, because she braced herself before replying, “I’ll be sixteen years old in a few weeks.”

“Sixteen... In total?” The woman insisted, trying her best to keep at bay the shock that was growing in her eyes.

“Yes,” Dylan confirmed, and didn’t react as Lady Darva took a hand to her mouth, looking the girl over like she’d just grown a second head, (or whatever the ghost equivalent to that was, of course.)

It took Jason one more second to realize that the woman wasn’t just surprised,— she was horrified. When the silence dragged on and Dylan started to shift her weight nervously from one side to the other, Jazz squared her shoulders and turned to her sister, faux-casually:

“Why don’t you go give them a tour? I have some questions for Lady Darva and I wouldn’t want to bore you,” she said, plainly, knowing the excuse was bad and that she didn’t need to make it any better, because Dylan trusted her and she’d go along with whatever she said.

“Yeah, of course,” the girl agreed, easily, and turned to the other two teenagers. (Well, maybe teenagers. Clearly, age here went beyond appearances.) With their agreement secured, she turned to him next.

“I was thinking I should stay, too,” he tried to play off. When Jazz looked at him puzzled, he couldn’t help but justify, “I have a few questions too.”

Read: Whatever had caused the woman to look as devastated as she did right now was probably the kind of information Dylan was hoping he would gather on his own.

Dylan turned to Jazz first and then Lady Darva, and after getting no objections from either, led her friends further into the castle. Jazz gently took the woman’s hand and helped her find her way to a suddenly-there wooden bench.

The woman was— well, not hyperventilating, obviously, but doing something that felt uncannily similar. Most of the body language Jason knew required having a physical body and thus didn’t (probably) apply here, but in a way he could still tell that Lady Darva was on the verge of a panic attack. The strange feeling he got from Dylan... Jason felt the Lady’s emotions in the same way, pulsing through him like a wave. 

“I know,” was all that Jazz said, voice soothing, once they’d sat down. Jason joined them quietly on the bench. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Sixteen...” Lady Darva said, sounding breathless, eyes stuck to the floor. “Sixteen,” she insisted, “she’s— A child,” and when Jazz nodded her head in agreement the woman went on, “her life’s not even over yet!”

“I know,” Jazz said again, eyes glossy.

“I thought liminals had gone extinct,” she attempted to explain, to no one in particular, “when the rumor went around about her, it just— It couldn’t be true,” Lady Darva covered her face in her hands. “No child should bear this burden. The— Ancients, is she as powerful as they say?” Lady Darva asked, almost begging Jazz to deny it. Jazz couldn’t. She nodded. The woman choked down a sob. “Ancients,” she exclaimed again.

Jason was trying to put the pieces together.

It was bad that Dylan was so young. (Agreed. Finally, some sense.) Most likely she’d been under the impression that Dylan was teen-shaped, and not actually teen-aged. It was also bad(?) that Dylan was powerful. He was a little lost on that one, to be honest.

“How is that even possible?” The woman asked, with a deeply unsettled frown in her face.

Jazz had a resigned, knowing pain painted across her expression when she replied, even though Darva didn’t expect her to: “Most of it is from when it happened,” she said, and Jason could tell she didn’t expect her answer to give Darva much comfort, only the calm that came with knowledge. “It’s been over two years now.”

“No,” the woman shook her head, rejecting the idea for a moment, before dropping her head into her hands again. “How could this have happened?” She lamented. “How did she even manage such a thing?”

A tired laugh rippled through Jazz at the question.

“She just wanted to help,” she shrugged, equal parts amazed and horrified at what she knew to be true. “Nobody else could, so... It was up to her.”

“A protector spirit,” Lady Darva said, realization heavy in her shoulders.

“We think so, yeah,” Jazz replied, quietly.

Lady Darva managed to calm down again after a while. The first thing she did was push her hair out of her face, straighten her clothes and wipe her tears, and as soon as she deemed herself presentable again, she began to apologize.

She didn’t get any further than “I am so terribly” before Jazz was shutting it down entirely, drying her own eyes as she simply stated, “You’re one of the very few people I’ve known to have a reasonable reaction to this, Lady Darva. Don’t ruin it by telling me you regret it.”

The woman hesitated for a split second before nodding. “Thank you, your Highness.”

Jazz, for all her composure during the recent crisis, practically squealed at the title.

“What?” She asked, weakly.

Darva blinked for a second, before explaining, “Traditionally, the siblings of the King receive the Prince or Princess title. Since you are King Phantom’s sister...” She trailed off, and looked at Jazz in expectation.

“Oh,” Jazz swallowed, “right. Of course.”

“It’s my understanding that ghosts formed during Pariah’s imprisonment are unfamiliar with the royal traditions,” Lady Darva said next, and it took Jason a second to clock that she was one hundred percent talking about Dylan, “I’ll be more than happy to explain anything that could cause confusion, your Highness.”

Jazz nodded, still a little stumped. She let out a shaky laugh and said, “She— Y’know, she said I was technically a princess now, but I didn’t actually think...”

“I’m sure her Majesty wouldn’t mind providing you with a different title, if this one’s not to your satisfaction,” Darva reassured.

“No, it’s—” Jazz blushed, flustered. Jason couldn’t help but stare. She blushed green. “It’s alright. I like it.”

“That is wonderful news,” Lady Darva said, a soft smile settling in her face, “it’s been too long since this castle had a Princess.”

Jason, fairly convinced that by then the mood had lifted as much as it possibly could, given the circumstances, took the opportunity to ask, “Are there any rules about the titles for the living family of the king?”

Jazz chuckled but let him be, so Jason turned his full attention to Lady Darva.

The woman hadn’t had time to freak out about him earlier, but clearly now was as good a time as any, if her face was an indication of anything.

“Well,—” she started, eyes wide, “to our knowledge, there has never been a king with living family,” she explained, “at least not one they were in contact with. In that, too, King Phantom is an outlier. Her Majesty would be the first one to make a command regarding this.”

“Fuck yeah,” Jason whispered, since Dylan would likely give him whatever title he asked for which meant that he'd get to live out his childhood dream of being a Jane Austen character. But that was for later. Now he was here for a different reason. “What's a command?”